


Reluctant Matchmaking 101

by Tabbikatt



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I can't help myself for loving the college AU cliche, I didn't want to JUST base everything off the MCU, M/M, POV Multiple, So face-wise I picture the MCU actors, This a total self-indulgence fic, Yes this is another college AU, but personality-wise I went for a sort of combination between the MCU and comics, fake/pretend dating (sort of), if that makes any sense?, since some characters are better written in the movies than others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabbikatt/pseuds/Tabbikatt
Summary: “So, you’re –” Bucky pauses. He must have heard wrong because there’s no way. There is no fucking way he heard that right. He scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re telling me that out of all the people in this entire godforsaken school, you have a thing for Tony Stark?”Steve blushes, shifting a little. He’s sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, his back resting against the wall. “I mean –”“Don’t get me wrong, Stevie,” Bucky drawls, rolling his eyes. He slumps in his own seat across the way, resting his elbows on the back of the chair, “I know you like brunettes. I mean, you dated Peg for, like, a year, and then there was that weird fling with Johnny –”“He dyes it, thanks much,” Steve mutters.“But holy shit, Stark will ruin you.”





	1. Bucky I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little nervous about posting this, but I've had so much fun writing this that I want to share it. The plot doesn't really get going until later, so the first few chapter are sort of just a preface to get a feel for the characters. This is likely going to be a pretty long story. I've been writing it since Infinity War and have about 100 (unedited) pages so far. Just lemme know what you think in the comments. Thank you! :)

It’s not that Bucky isn’t familiar with Steve’s shortcomings. He is. He _definitely_ is. They’ve known each other since they were kids; Bucky can’t pretend that his best friend hasn’t done some stupid shit. No one’s perfect, after all. 

He loves the shit out of the guy, _don’t get him wrong_ , but Jesus. This is just ridiculous.

“So, you’re –” Bucky pauses. He must have heard wrong because there’s no way. He scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re telling me that out of _all_ the people in this _entire_ godforsaken school, you have a thing for _Tony Stark_?”

Steve blushes, shifting a little. He’s sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, back resting against the wall. “I mean –”

“Don’t get me wrong, Stevie,” Bucky drawls, rolling his eyes. He slumps in his own seat across the way, resting his elbows on the back of the chair, “I know you like brunettes. I mean, you dated Peg for, like, a year, and then there was that weird fling with Johnny –”

“He dyes it, thanks much,” Steve mutters.

“But holy shit, Stark will _ruin_ you.”

  “He’s – he’s not _so_ bad.” Steve fiddles with the edge of his T-shirt. “A little – I guess a little rough around the edges, but –”

“He’s an asshole.”

This is too much. Too. Goddamn. Much. Steve being bisexual? No problem. No problem at _all._ Hell, Bucky is too and he might have, kinda-sorta had a crush on Sam Wilson at one point. Like, a million years ago. (Not _now_ ; certainly not _now_. He’ll never admit it Sam’s _face_ because he’d never hear the end of it; Sam’s ego is inflated enough as _is_.)

But Jesus Christ. Stark is _far_ from good boyfriend material.  

“I made him laugh the other day,” Steve says, smiling softly at his lap. No doubt dreaming up ways to _woo_ the guy. Gross.

“Was he laughing _with_ you or _at_ you?” Bucky crosses his arms, staving off a strong urge to vomit.

“ _With_ me,” Steve insists, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I mean, he sorta stopped me from tripping over my shoelace –”

“What, he catch you or somethin’?” Bucky stares harder at the punk because Steve _will_ crack; at his core, Steve’s a terrible liar with a terribly poetic conscience. Fifteen years of friendship has proven that.  

Steve scratches his arm. “Not exactly.”

“Steve…”

“I was walking one way and he was walking the other way with Banner, and, like –” Steve sighs, “he called out, ‘hey, blondie, your shoe’s untied.’”

“And?”

“I ran into a door,” Steve mutters.

Bucky dead-drops his face into his hands. He wants to laugh. He really, really does, but Steve already looks so pathetic. Bucky more pities him than anything.

“I mean,” Steve continues, his muffled voice suggesting that he’s also hiding and really, Bucky can’t blame him, “he did stop and help me up. But you know what he said to me?”

Bucky hums noncommittally because really, does he really want to know?  

Steve expels a long, hard breath like he’s renouncing the weight of the world from his shoulders. Oh, boy. “He said, ‘I’ve had people fall for me, but this is ridiculous’.”

Bucky slides a hand down his face as finally lifts his head. This kid will be the death of him. The literal _death_ of him, he’s sure. “And what did _you_ –”

“I sorta just stared at him for a moment and then walked off without saying anything.”

“Stevie...”

“I panicked!” Steve throws his hands in the air. If he gets much redder, he’ll probably catch on fire. “He was staring up at me all expectantly like he was expecting me to be _clever_ or whatever and my brain, like, short-circuited.”

Bucky lolls his head back and stares at the ceiling. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hold all the answers to the mysteries of the universe. It’s a boring, blank canvas devoid of any worth; much like Steve’s lovelife. “Goddamnit. If you weren’t my best friend –”

“Please, Buck,” Steve cuts in and his voice is so whiny, so desperate that Bucky can’t help but smile a little, “please help me.”

“Just tell me what the hell you even see in him.” Another fair question, he thinks because all he’s seen so far from the likes of Tony Stark is a guy who shrouds himself in his own ego. And Steve deserves so much more than that. He deserves someone _worthy_ of his time and effort because when Steve falls for someone, he falls _hard_ and Bucky isn’t going to stand back and watch his best friend fall into Unrequited Love Land any further than he already has.

“He’s just – I dunno…” Steve tilts his head, his eyes glazed as he stares into the distance. He smiles softly. “I know can be a total ass. Trust me, I _know_. I’ve seen it. But I also know he can be really sweet. I think, underneath it all, his asshole persona is just that – a persona.” He shrugs one shoulder, grin more pronounced. “I think underneath it all, he cares. I mean, I’ve seen him do nice things for his friends, so he’s not, like, _heartless_ or anything.”

“Like what?” Bucky leans forward.

“I saw him buy lunch for Thor the other day, that was nice.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. “He helped Bruce Banner with his science project; they were working on it in the cafeteria the other day. I also saw him help Peter Parker with some math homework. Oh, _and_ –”

Bucky holds his hands up. “Alright, alright, I get it. The guy’s a saint.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “I never said _saint_. Tony’s not perfect, but –”

“Oh, so you’re on a first name basis?”

Bucky smirks as Steve bristles. Well, not so much bristles. He more opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Nothing comes out. He just gapes at Bucky, like the Bisexual Disaster he is.  

“Hey,” Bucky shrugs, “I’m just glad you’re able to say something other than, ‘he’s hot.’”

Steve blushes again, averting his gaze.

“And trust me, I _know_ you find him attractive,” Bucky chides, sitting next to him on the bed, “your pining face ain’t subtle, punk.”

“Fuck off,” Steve mutters, though he can’t quite hide a grin.

Bucky almost laughs just at _that_ because anyone who doesn’t know Steve might assume him some blushing virgin who calls others out on spewing profanities, and he’s anything _but._ “Look, Steve,” he says instead, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. Tony Stark doesn’t exactly have a strong monogamous record; I just don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

Steve shifts in his seat, smile slipping.

“But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll help you.” Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own. “But I gotta warn you, if he hurts you, he ain’t gettin’ off easy.”

 “You said the same thing about Peggy.”

“Difference bein’ that Pegs _could_ kick my ass.” Bucky grins.

Steve laughs. “Were you _afraid_ of her?”

“Weren’t _you_?” Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I saw her roundhouse kick a guy once for fuckin’ catcallin’ her. Not that he didn’t _deserve_ it, of course, but still.”

Steve only laughs harder. He leans forward, hugging his stomach. “Oh, my god. I always wondered why you didn’t take me up on the double date invites.”

“Well, that, and I always sorta assumed that she wasn’t exactly my biggest fan,” Bucky shrugs a shoulder, pleased when Steve shakes with laughter, face buried in his hands. “Which I never thought was _fair_ because if anything, _you’re_ a bad influence on _me_ , Steven ‘Fight Me’ Rogers.”

Steve doesn’t even argue the point, he’s laughing so hard. Not that there’s anything _to_ argue; Steve’s known for picking fights with guys twice his fuckin’ size. Thank _god_ he finally bulked up because Bucky’d grown tired of saving his ass time after time after fuckin’ _time_. (Not that Bucky couldn’t _still_ take him in a fight, but still.)

“So you’ll help me?” Steve eventually says when he’s caught his breath; he’s red in the face again, his cheeks flushed as he stares at Bucky with wide, pleading eyes. In another life, he _must_ have been a Golden fuckin’ Retriever.

It almost makes Bucky want to smack him because he’s a grown man giving literal _puppy-dog_ eyes.

Right now, however, is not the time for smacking. 

Right now, Bucky only dramatically lolls his head and mutters, “alright, fine.”

Steve’s never looked so pleased.

~ ~ ~

Swallowing pride takes some getting used to, it seems because as much as Bucky doesn’t _want_ to help Steve get a date with Tony fucking Stark, he _will_. He… will. Somehow. If it will make Steve happy, he’ll do it. Stark’s not the easiest person to get ahold of, though; he’s hardly ever alone, always surrounded by his Inner Circle – namely, Bruce Banner, Jennifer Walters and Peter Parker.

Reed Richards will try joining on rare occasion, though he never gets far; he’s usually kicked out within moments, leaving with his head held high as Stark and Banner follow him with mindful gazes of pure disdain. And honestly, Bucky doesn’t really blame them because Reed Richards is an egotistical asshat.

Whatever. Unimportant.

A lesser person might accuse Bucky of something as lame as _jealousy_. He’s anything but _jealous_ of Steve’s weird-ass crush on the guy because jealousy might imply that _he_ wants Steve. Which he doesn’t. In another, less twisted reality he might pine over him like a pathetic sonovabitch, because Steve _is_ a great guy and dating him would probably be as easy as breathing. In _this_ reality, however, he knows something like that might too easily crumple their fifteen-year foundation.  

(Plus, he’s seen Steve intoxicated, singing into a hairbrush while sporting a Superman onesie. Steve has a _very_ high alcohol tolerance, so it was a once-in-a-lifetime event, but _still_ ; not exactly a turn-on.)

So, he’s not _jealous_. He just doesn’t like the idea of Steve liking someone as elusive as Tony Stark because Tony’s literally described himself as a “Genius Playboy”, and Jesus Christ, what a douchey way to introduce yourself. _Maybe_ he cares for his friends. He _does_ help Parker with his homework a lot; he _does_ laugh it up with Banner and Walters in the corridors; and Bucky’s sure he’s seen him slide Thor Odinson an extra pudding cup.

But that doesn’t really explain Steve’s _super intense_ infatuation. He doesn’t even _know_ the guy. They’ve had literally 0.05% of a conversation. The other 99.95% being Steve making an idiot out of himself. But Rogers swears up-and-fucking- _down_ that he likes Stark for his _personality_ so, as Steve’s best friend, Bucky feels obliged to believe him.

“Dude.”

Bucky snaps out of his reverie. “Huh?”

Sam’s face comes into focus, and he quirks a grin. “Dude, you’ve been staring into space the last couple minutes. What’s up?” His homework lays lax in the center of the cedarwood table, long forgotten with nothing but his name scribbled in the top margin.

The area is quiet. Nothing new. Bucky and Sam are sitting at one of the tinier tables, a pile of books between them. Bucky also has homework, but no matter. There are more important things at hand. He glances back at the Odinson brothers; they’re the closest, though Thor’s not doing much more than flipping through a magazine while Loki scours the shelves.

“Just thinking,” Bucky whispers, turning back. He glances at his own long-forgotten assignment. Algebraic equations are so unforgiving.

“Abou?”

“Just – Steve wants me to help him with something.” Bucky sighs, leaning his cheek in his hand. He keeps his voice low, though he’s sure no one cares enough to eavesdrop. It’s a good-sized school, filled to the brim with highly-respectable academics who have more important things to worry about than silly schoolboy crushes.

However, sound travels. The room feels bigger than it should in its vacancy; like his words will echo through campus and get back to people it really _shouldn’t._

Sam stares expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Sighing again, because the very foundation of the request just feels too off-kilter to be real – because really, Steve and Tony are _very_ different people whose ideologies just do _not_ match up – Bucky drums his fingers against the side of his head. His hair’s growing too long for its own good as he feels the ends tickling his exposed neck, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“He wants me to set him up with someone.”

There’s a pause, an almost comical beat of silence.

Sam deadpans, “it’s Tony Stark, isn’t it?”

 Bucky nods. He almost feels guilty mentioning it, since Steve _did_ tell him in _confidence_ , but Sam’s one of their best friends, too. And he deserves to know, too. If only to help give Steve shit.

“I knew it!” Sam slaps the edge of the table. It’s loud in the quiet lull of mid-afternoon. A few people send them pointed glances, including Thor and Loki, but most people have headphones on and remain oblivious to the interruption. Thor returns to his magazine in an instant, his big, blue eyes glossy as he skims paragraphs; he’s clearly only here to keep Loki company, nothing more.

Bucky can’t help but grin, despite the fact that he _is_ almost worried that word will get back. Not that Tony Stark has literally bugged every inch of the campus floor – he probably has better things to do with his time than scour tape after tape to see if anyone’s mentioned him by _name_ – but Thor occasionally hangs out with their group. He might say something to Stark or Banner.

“I told Steve his pining face ain’t subtle,” he says.

“About as subtle as a goddamn hurricane,” Sam says, smirking. He leans his chin in his hands. “So how you gonna do it?”

Bucky twists a strand of hair on his finger. “That’s the problem. I mean, the guy doesn’t even know Steve _exists_ , for Christ’s sake.”

“And that _is_ a problem.” Sam picks up his phone, swiping along the screen at breakneck speed. “However, I may have an idea.” 

“Yeah?”

“I believe Stark and Banner house together, just off campus, right?”

Bucky blinks. “I believe so?”

“Wellll,” Sam swipes some more, tilting his head as if it helps him see the screen better, “I room with Clint Barton, who’s best friends with a girl who is _apparently_ Bruce Banner’s ex-girlfriend.” He set his phone back on the table face-up, giving Bucky a cryptic look. “So, I’ll see if he can get her to talk to us about talking to Banner about talking to Stark.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That sounds like a bunch of unnecessary steps. Why can’t we just go talk to Banner directly?”

“I mean,” Sam tilts his head, looking somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder, “if you wanna try, go for it. But I just don’t think Bruce is gonna be too keen on spilling shit about his best friend to a pair of _strangers_.” His face breaks into a shit-eating grin and before Bucky can even ask him why, another joins their table.

“Sammy!” A blonde guy Bucky vaguely recognizes sits next to him. “I got your message; what’s up?” Glancing at Bucky, he holds out a hand. “Yo, name’s Clint. Sam’s roomie.”

“Uh, Bucky,” he says, shaking the guy’s hand. It’s awkward, given their angle.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Clint folds his arms, leaning forward on his elbows. “So, what’s the sitch, Sammy? Said you needed help?”

Sam lifts his eyebrows, nodding at Bucky. “My buddy, James, here needs to talk to Natasha.” He grins. “It’s about Steve.”

Clint blinks, relaxing back in his seat. He glances at Bucky, his head askew. “Why?”

“Because our buddy Steve has a thing for Tony Stark,” Sam says with a short laugh.

“Right.” Clint scratches the top of his head. “Nat mentioned somethin’ about that.” He grins suddenly, face lighting up like a plugged-in Christmas tree, “She noticed your boy walk smack-dab,” he punches his palm and Bucky can’t help but laugh at that, “into a door the other day because Tony said _hi_ to him.”

“Yep, that’s Steve alright.” Bucky smiles fondly. Figures there were witnesses. There are _always_ witnesses. Hell, Steve’s probably a viral video by now either by way of cell phone or security camera; they’ll have to consult the internet later. “The punk ain’t subtle.”

“But yeah, I’ll talk to her about it,” Clint says, sticking out his hand again. It feels too stiff, too professional, like they’re setting up an all-important business meeting with the President. At least until Bucky reaches out to shake it, and Clint draws back, ghosting his hand over the top of his head. “Too slow.” He fist-bumps Sam and then leaves.

“Hope the punk appreciates the shit I do for him,” Bucky says, looking around. He _seriously_ doubts anyone’s cared enough to eavesdrop since most people are too busy with their studies to give half-a-shit. The Odinsons aren’t even paying mind; Thor’s still flipping through a magazine while Loki’s leant over a large book, hands tangled in his long, dark hair.

Sam only shakes his head, grinning.


	2. Steve I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe the response this has already gotten! :) Thank you so much everyone! 
> 
> I basically rewrote this entire chapter from scratch because I didn't like my original idea for it. It's another short one since I'm still setting everything up for later; and also to introduce the idea of my multiple POVs. I have four perspectives in mind for the narrative. I hope you enjoy! :)

Steve trusts Bucky.

Bucky’s his best friend. His partner-in-crime. His right-hand man. Someone who will always be there for him, no matter what. He _has_ seen Steve at his absolute _worst,_ after all. Apparently. (So-called video ‘evidence’ still pending.)

But he _also_ knows that Bucky isn’t exactly _thrilled_ at the idea of him liking someone like Tony Stark. In another reality, Steve _might’ve_ taken Bucky’s attitude as jealousy and just sorta… ran with it. Wishful Thinking is a funny thing. Because yeah, at one point he had a ridiculous crush on his best friend. A pathetic infatuation that only seemed to (mostly) vanish when he realized that Bucky had a thing for _Sam._

(Love Triangles aren’t really his thing. Too cliché.)

Anyway.

Tony.

What to do about _Tony_.

Who hardly knows Steve exists.

Who (or is it _whom_?) is sitting just across the courtyard, chatting amicably on his phone. _Probably_ with his girlfriend. Who he _probably_ has. He’s _probably_ straight as a flagpole.

Sighing, Steve taps his eraser on the sketchpad. He won’t be creepy and draw _Tony_. No matter how much he may want to. And God help him, he _wants_ to. Because Tony just looks so beautiful under the guise of the mid-day sun; his smile so carefree and wonderful, and Steve’s hand is just itching to fill the blank canvas with sketch upon sketch of his _face_.

But he won’t.

The fact that Tony hasn’t noticed Steve so blatantly _gawking_ at him is a miracle unto itself. He can’t just sit here and _draw_ the guy. (Though to be fair, he could probably draw Tony by memory alone; he spends far too much time staring at him in any given day that it’s a miracle Tony _hasn’t_ said anything. Banner, Walters and Parker have probably noticed at this point, too, but whatever. They haven’t said anything either.)

Maybe one day he’ll draw Tony. _If_ they ever become friends. Or vague acquaintances. Or at least something other than… piner and pinee? Until then, no drawings. Just… pathetic gawking.

The courtyard is quiet with only a few bustling through the area as a segue to their next class. A few more lay in the grass, peacefully snoozing under the gold and crimson trees. Personally, Steve doesn’t think it’s nearly warm enough to comfortably lay on the dewy ground; mid-October is upon them after all and though it’s sunny, the air is chilly.

Steve’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he takes it out.

From: _Sam:_ **So I hear u need guidance (;**

What the hell? Steve reads the message a few times over. Sam obviously isn’t _hitting_ on him or anything because that would be _painfully_ out-of-character. (Plus, unlike himself and Bucky, Sam _is_ straight.) Which can only mean… Oh, no.

To: _Sam:_ Aw, did Buck tell you? I didn’t want him spreading that around.

From: _Sam:_ **Yah, but we got ur back. By the end of the year, u’ll b a trophy husband**

From: _Sam:_ **Or HAVE 1**

From: _Sam:_ **Whatever u prefer**

Steve runs a hand through his hair. Damnit, Bucky. Of _course_ Bucky told Sam. Whether or not either of them will admit it, they tell each other _everything_. It’s nice that they want to help him and all, but damnit, now they’ll be relentless.

To: _Sam:_ Dare I ask what you’re going to do?

Glancing up, Steve finds Tony still sitting across the way, still chatting away on his phone. He keeps flittering his hand at the open air, a carefree smile still spread along his face. Not that Steve has any _right_ to be since he hardly knows the guy – save Tony’s name and a few of his friends – but he can’t quite quell the shiver of envy that passes through his very core. Because Tony just looks so _happy_.

And _he_ wants to make Tony smile like that. Smile like all is right in the world.

Grimacing, Steve looks back at his phone. Bucky messages next which means he and Sam are having a very pertinent conversation about Steve’s love-life (what else is new?) either through text or in person. (Probably in person.)

From: _Bucky: **Go talk to him, Stevie.**_

Steve looks up, finding a few fresh faces walk right on by without a second’s glance, but no sign of Bucky or Sam.

To: _Bucky:_ Can you see me?

From: _Bucky: **just fucking with u. :) I’m in class.**_

From: _Bucky: **but based on ur response, I know ur starin at him like a twitterpatted moron**_

Steve blushes. Has he become _that_ predictable?

From: _Bucky: **So PLEASE, for the sake of ur sanity, just go & TALK to him. U’ll never get anywhere with him if he doesn’t know u exist **_

He hesitates. Bucky’s right, of course. But it’s not like he can just march right up to someone like _Tony Stark_ and say, ‘hey, I’ve had this ridiculous crush on you for like a year. You wanna go out for ice cream?’

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

To: _Bucky:_ What would I even say?

From: _Sam:_ **Start with ur name**

Groaning, Steve drags a hand down his face. They’re hanging out. They _must_ be hanging out.

“In class, my ass,” he mutters. Still, he pockets his phone and glances up again. Tony still hasn’t left, though he’s now pacing beneath the trees. “You can do this, Steve. You can definitely do this.”

There’s a sort of buzzing in his head like he’s back at the bar, drunk on 100 shots of whiskey and singing showtunes into a shot glass. (Which Bucky luckily _wasn’t_ present for; he’d never hear the end of it.)

“Just introduce yourself,” he says aloud, grabbing the sketchpad and tucking it under his arm. “Just say hi. That’s all you have to do. That’s _all_ you need to do. And if he doesn’t like it, then maybe he’s not worth your time.”

Right? Right.

But it’s not like Tony Stark is a _scary_ guy. Far from it. He seems nice. He works on science projects with Bruce Banner; he helps Peter Parker with his math homework. Parker’s like his kid brother. It’s cute.

“God, I sound like a stalker,” he mutters, looking down. He focuses hard on the cobblestone path, littered with red and gold leaves, keeping sure to step on every single crunchy one.

Fall really is a beautiful season.

He’s so fixated on the pathway that he doesn’t even realize how close he’s drawn until he literally bumps into the guy, dropping the sketchpad. Face-down.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” Steve says, a little louder than he probably _should_. He scrambles to grab the pad, but Tony gets to it first.

“You alright?” Tony asks, voice surprisingly soft as he hands it over. “Because I saw you over there,” he nods to the vacant bench, “and you looked kind of… mad, I guess?” When all Steve does is stare because words are _hard_ , he adds, “I mean, I guess I’d be mad, too, if I couldn’t talk.”

Swallowing thickly, Steve manages a small, “I can talk.” He clears his throat. “I mean, I can _talk_. I just, uh… I’ve been – I’ve been a little sick lately, so, uh… my voice kinda comes and goes?” His six-foot-two frame feels like it’s shrinking under Tony’s unwavering gaze.

But then Tony smiles, his entire face lighting up. Steve’s heart skips a beat.

“Well, in _that_ case, I’d recommend gargling with salt water.” Tony shrugs a shoulder. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket; it really brings out his eyes. “Or drinking some tea with honey or lemon. It’s what my mother used to give me when I had a cold.”

“Um, thanks.” Steve rubs his neck. There’s an obvious flush spreading along his face and for the first time, he curses the sun for being out. He can’t exactly shroud himself in shadows under the mid-afternoon sunshine, nearly-barren trees be damned.

“So, you’re a professional artist, I see,” Tony says, motioning to the sketchpad. He’s long since abandoned his phone conversation; someone’s voice – a _male_ voice, by the sounds of it – tries grabbing his attention to no avail.

Steve shrugs, trying to ignore the stupid fluttery feeling laying waste in his stomach. It’s making his voice shake. “Amateur, more like,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

“And here I was trying to be coy,” Tony quips, sitting back on the bench. It’s partially covered in fallen leaves, but he brushes them off and motions to the seat with a quick sweep of his hand. Which means he wants Steve to sit.

With him.

Holy shit.

Steve slowly lowers himself, careful to keep a good distance. It’s not a large bench, only two seats separated by a metal bar, so there isn’t much leeway. Still, he keeps his knees pointed away, so their legs won’t touch.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Tony says, holding out a hand. “Tony Stark.” It’s an unnecessary introduction partly because, well, he’s _Tony Stark_ ; literally everyone knows him. But also because they _have_ technically met, but for the sake of saving face, Steve doesn’t mention anything.

He only clears his throat again and takes Tony’s hand. “Uh, Steve. Steve Rogers.” Tony’s hand is calloused, far from soft. Not that Steve expects any less. The guy _does_ spend all day working in a lab, after all.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.” Tony smiles again when Steve (reluctantly) relinquishes his hold. “Now that we have that settled, show me something.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“I mean, only if you’re comfortable with it,” Tony says, smile fading. “I’m just so _fascinated_ with art. Pepper’s always telling me I have a problem since I drag her to _so many_ museums and such.” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, _excuse_ me if I want to stay _cultured._ ”

“If you’re really interested, I don’t see why not,” Steve says with a grin. He bites back an urge to ask if this ‘Pepper’ is Tony’s girlfriend. She probably is. She’s clearly not the person on the phone, but he probably talks to her _all the time_.

“Of course!” Tony returns the grin, ten-fold, and Steve wonders if he’s died and gone to Heaven. “I’ve always loved art. It’s a way of expression, y’know? Less dangerous than my own anyway.” He coughs lightly into his free hand. “I consider myself a bit of an amateur scientist. Which I think _counts_. In its own way. Rhodey’s always telling me to be more careful, but science _is_ an art. I can’t hold back on my _art_ even if it means dealing with a few wayward, uh… explosions.”

“Explosions?” Steve parrots.

“Well, nothing _major_.” Tony scoffs, waving a hand. “I just like to experiment with robots. They don’t _exactly_ do my bidding or anything, but this one program I’m working on is voice monitored. So _technically_ he does? Sort of? He gets a little sassy sometimes; I’m still workin’ out the kinks.” He shrugs again. “Just a little semester project, I suppose.”

He glances at the sketchpad sitting on Steve’s lap. The edges are a bit crinkled, but the drawings are still perfectly intact.

Steve hands it over, pleased when Tony immediately flips it open.

“Damn, Steve,” Tony breathes, hand ghosting over the page. “This is incredible.” He glances up. “Friend of yours?”

Steve nods. “My best friend. James. Everyone calls him Bucky though.”

Tony laughs. It’s a nice sound; one Steve hopes to hear more often. “My best friend’s name is also James. Last name’s Rhodes, so I just started callin’ him Rhodey one day and it stuck.” He glances at his phone; no one’s talking anymore, but he still lifts it to his ear and mutters a quick, “I’ll call you back” and pockets it.

“That’s Sam,” Steve supplies when Tony turns the page. “And don’t ask about the weird pose.”

“I’ve seen him around,” Tony says, stroking his chin. “Though I hardly pay mind.” His eyes widen, and he looks back at Steve, quickly adding, “I don’t mean that in a ‘you peasants are below me’ sort of way. More in a, I don’t know, ‘sometimes I get tunnel vision and _can’t_ pay attention.” He rolls his wrist. “… sort of way?”

“I figured,” Steve says with another smile. He probably _is_ staring at Tony like a, ‘twitterpatted moron,’ but it’s just so hard _not_ to. Especially when they’re sitting so close that Steve can see every grain of stubble on Tony’s chin.  

Tony flips the page and smirks without sparing Steve a glance. “Is that why you ran into the door?”

Feigning a sudden case of amnesia is probably out of the question since Tony was literally _there_ to help him up. So, Steve just solemnly nods and scratches the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

“Looked like it hurt.”

“Didn’t feel great.” Steve shrugs a shoulder. “Hurt my pride more than anythin’ though.”

“I _did_ distract you, to be _fair_ ,” Tony says. “Should’ve kept my mouth shut.” He grins again, tilting his head. “‘ _Blondie’_ probably didn’t help; I think like five other people looked when you did. Surprised there weren’t more casualties.”

“Guess I’m used to it.” Steve laughs. “That’s Bucky’s name for me, too. He has all the know-how in the world to come up with a more creative nickname, yet I’m still ‘punk’ or ‘blondie.’”

Tony huffs another breathless laugh. “I don’t even wanna tell you ‘bout some of the shit Rhodey and Pepper come up with sometimes.”

“She your girlfriend?” Steve blurts out before he can stop himself and immediately wants to smack himself. If Bucky and Sam were here, they’d probably tell him to stop sounding so desperate.

Luckily, Tony doesn’t seem to mind. He only shakes his head, hopefully oblivious to the almost _overwhelming_ relief that floods Steve’s senses. “Not anymore anyway,” he says, staring somewhere in the distance. “We dated, like – two years ago now? I think?” He runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Decided we’re better friends.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Steve asks because though Tony’s smiling, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I got over it.” Tony’s voice sounds strained, like he’s forgotten how to speak. He rests his hands behind his head, relaxing back in his seat.

“Sorta sounds like me and this one gal. Peggy.” Steve smiles, a little sadly. Their break-up still feels fresh though it happened a while ago. Shortly before last year’s Christmas Fiasco at the Maximoff’s Mansion.

“Break-ups are the worst, aren’t they?” Tony isn’t even pretending to smile anymore. He stares at the leaf-littered path, eyes unfocused.

Steve almost smacks himself. Again. A chance to finally talk with the guy he’s been pining after for almost a damn _year_ , and he goes and makes him _sad_. Quickly, he says, “But hey, if you want, I can show you my art studio sometime. I’m not exactly an _avid_ painter, but I sorta… dabble in it?” And by art studio, he only means his room at the Barnes’ place back in Brooklyn.

Tony doesn’t respond. He only absently nods and takes out his phone again.

“But I, uh…” Steve fumbles. Damnit, damnit, _damn_ it. “I have class soon, so I, uh… I gotta go.”

 At that, Tony looks back up and grins; it seems forced, but Steve will take anything he can get at this point. “Yeah, of course. I told Pete I’d help him with something anyway.” He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans. “It was nice meeting you, Steve. I might have to take you up on that studio invitation.”

Then he literally _winks_ before walking off, phone at his ear.  

Steve drops his face in his hands.

~ ~ ~

“Stevie, don’t beat yourself up.”

“I _finally_ got a chance to talk to him. _Finally_ got a chance to spend a moment _alone_ with the guy, and what do I do?” Steve lifts his gaze from his palms; the darkness is almost welcome in comparison to Bucky and Sam’s pitying faces. They exchange a glance.

“C’mon, man. We’ve all done stupid shit in front of people we actually _like_ ,” Sam says, like _that_ helps. It doesn’t. It only makes Steve want to further ingrain himself into the safety of his own hands. His hands haven’t betrayed him. Not like his mouth. “Plus, this is _nothing_ ; you literally _ran into a door_ in front of him.”

Steve sends Bucky a sidelong glance. Fifteen years of friendship and Bucky _still_ can’t figure out what the term ‘ _in confidence’_ means. He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to make him feel bad about his last break-up though. I feel like an asshole.”

“Hey, you were _only_ trying to gauge his relationship status.” Sam offers a weak smile that fades far too easily; maybe Steve’s glaring harder than he thinks. “I mean, I guess you could’ve just done some digging instead; I’m sure he has a Facebook profile.”

“I swear to Christ, Wilson,” Bucky mutters.

Sam holds his hands up. “I’m _just_ sayin’.” He jabs his thumb sideways, offering Steve a less-than-comforting grin. “Besides, the guy seems _fine_. He’s not mopin’ or anything.”

Steve looks over at Tony’s table; as usual, he’s sitting with Bruce Banner and Jennifer Walters, the three deep-in-conversation about… something. Probably something science-related, though from what he’s heard (or rather _over_ heard because he pays _far_ too close attention for his own good), Jennifer isn’t like her cousin. She’s looking to be a lawyer.

“God, I really _am_ a stalker,” Steve mumbles under his breath, though not quietly enough it seems because he _swears_ Bucky mutters, “Don’t I know it.”

“So, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sam, thankfully, seems oblivious to Steve and Bucky’s incessant mutterings. He turns back to his mashed potatoes. “I don’t think you _ruined your chance_ with him or whatever; don’t worry so much, Steve.” He takes a large bite, leftover potato skins and all.

Granted, Steve isn’t a mind-reader. He’s known Bucky for the better part of his entire _life_ , but he won’t pretend to always know what the guy is thinking.  So, when he sees Bucky just so blatantly _stare_ at their best friend, he can’t tell if Bucky is wondering what he ever saw in Sam; or if he _still_ sees something in Sam; or, more likely – because this would mirror Steve’s _own_ thoughts – wondering why he ever told Sam about Steve’s pathetic crush to begin with.

Shit, Steve regrets even telling _Bucky_ about it.

Eventually, Sam lifts his head and raises his eyebrows. “… what?” He sets the spoon down.

Bucky’s lip curls into a hint of what could either be a smile or a sneer. It’s hard to say. “Telling Steve Rogers ‘not to worry’ is like telling my sister’s cat ‘not to bite.’ It just,” he looks at Steve, expression softening, “it just goes against his nature.”

Three years ago, Bucky’s gaze would’ve made Steve positively _melt_. Because Bucky’s eyes are so warm and just filled to the brim with unbridled affection. _Platonic_ affection, though affection nonetheless. But Steve isn’t stupid enough to actually believe that Bucky’s disdain for Tony comes from a place of _jealousy_.

That was three years ago, anyway. _Now_ , Steve just shakes his head. “You don’t gotta treat me like I’m made of glass, Buck.” He looks back at Tony, Banner and Walters; they’re all crowded around a single piece of paper, it seems, and Steve can’t help but wonder if he’d be able to keep up with their conversation anyway.

“I’m not _trying_ to, but Stevie, you…” Bucky shakes his head again and turns his attention back to Sam. “Your roomie ever talk to that one chick?”

“Natasha?” Sam grabs his phone, taps the screen a few times, and then hands it over. “See for yourself.”

Bucky sets the phone between himself and Steve. “Let’s see here…”

From: _Clint:_ **Nat says she doesn’t wanna tlk 2 bruce but we can probs figure sumthin out. Mayb try tlkin 2 her bout it?**

Steve frowns as he hands the phone back. “What were you going to do exactly?”

Sam grins and claps his hands. “Basically, Natasha is Bruce Banner’s ex-girlfriend. We were gonna try and get her to talk to Bruce to talk to Tony.”

“Why not just talk to Bruce or Tony _directly_?” Steve suggests because the whole thing just sounds like a mess of convoluted steps.

“Be my guest, Rogers.” Sam motions to Tony, Banner, and Walters again with a large sweep of his hand. “Just go right up, like our young friend, Peter Parker, and sit there. Uninvited.”

When Steve glances back, he finds that Peter Parker has indeed joined the group without a second thought. He sits next to Tony, setting his backpack on the floor, and immediately jumps into the conversation. Parker’s an amateur scientist, too, it seems, judging by his enthused expression. 

Realistically, he _could_ probably sit with them. The only person they _really_ seem to dislike is Reed Richards anyway. Tony would probably just tell the other three about Steve’s drawings and everything would be fantastic.

However, the anxious fluttering in Steve’s stomach, just at the very idea of having Tony’s eyes on him, says otherwise. He shakes his head. “I’d rather not.”

“Look, _I’ll_ talk to this Natasha chick,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. He grabs his fork and stabs the slab of meat in the center of the plate. Steve thinks it might be meatloaf? It’s hard to tell; for a University, the food here is hardly better than what they had in middle school. “I just want you and Stark to live happily ever after or whatever, because your moping is making _me_ mope.”

“You’re a good friend, Barnes,” Sam drawls, though he’s still grinning. He digs back into his food, playing what looks like a game of Galaga on his phone.

“Just set up a meeting and I’ll see what I can do.” Though he’s clearly still not happy about the whole situation – and Steve tries not to pertain that to jealousy because it’s _not_ – he still seems pleased when Steve mutters a small, “thank you.”

“Only because it’s you, Steve,” Bucky says, wearily eyeing his plate. He takes a small bite out of the meatloaf and sighs. Apparently, it's just as disappointing as it looks. 

Steve can’t help but smile. He really does have some great friends.


	3. Peter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously appreciate everyone who's responded to my story so far. Thank you so much! T_T

Usually being the New Kid – with a capital NK – is a chore. It’s the literal definition of Why the Hell is Everyone Staring at Me? Because of _course_ being new means that you’re secretly an alien. An alien from the planet: Everyone Call Me Out on Everything Like I’m Always Doing Something Wrong.

At least when it comes to _high school_. Because the very definition of high school is: No. No, no,  _no_.

In college, however, literally no one _cares_. About anything. College students literally could _not_ give less of a shit. They’ll go to class half-dressed in rumpled clothing and a canteen full of vodka. 

It’s. _Awesome_.

Peter’s made some great, new friends, too. Not that he doesn’t still keep in touch with his high school friends; he and Ned text, like, all the time. They’re only a subway ride away anyway, so they _do_ see one another. And MJ. And Gwen.

None of them are old enough to drink though (yet), so their days together (when their schedules  _don't_ sadly conflict) usually consist of Starbucks runs and _Cards Against Humanity_. (Which Peter is _awesome_ at, no matter what Gwen may say; ex-girlfriend or not, he _will_ annihilate her because he's _hilarious_ , thankyouverymuch.)

But nowadays, Peter spends most of his time hanging out with his new group of friends; his _older_ group of friends: Tony, Jen and Bruce. It’s so weird hanging out with people in their twenties. They’re not even what Peter would call _old_ , but they’re just so… worldly and stuff. It’s so awesome.

Especially Tony. Tony tries playing everything off like he doesn’t care; like he has this constant Cool Guy Aura that everyone _should_ be able to see. But he doesn’t. Not really. He has more of a… Big Brother Aura more than anything. With Bruce. With Jen. With Peter, himself.

He even helps Peter with his homework. Not that Peter isn't  _smart_ , perse; au contraire, he considers himself  _very_ smart. Genius-level, really (and  _not_ just because Aunt May constantly feeds his ego). But he  _does_ have his own personal kryptonite: Math. Peter’s a scientist at heart, but that doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys _math_. Math, when applied to scientific calculations (e.g. chemistry or engineering) is interesting. Math by itself, like with any one of lame-ass, "if Thomas leaves the station at 2 P.M., when will he arrive in Vancouver?" problems is just so... damn...  _boring_. And it's hard to concentrate hard enough to  _get_ things when you're bored out of your freaking  _mind_.

“ _Pre-_ calculus is _still_ a form of calculus,” Peter says. He presses on the paper with his fingertip, shifting it back to Tony’s end. Nothing here applies to anything he wants to actually _do_. Who _cares_ how fast the train is going? No one.

“It’s basically –” Tony sighs, running a hand down his face. “It’s algebra. It’s _basically_ advanced algebra. You took algebra, right? That’s all it really is.”

“It has the word in the title,” Peter grumbles.

“That’s irrelevant.” Tony picks up the pencil again and scribbles another note. “Don’t think of it as _calculus_ or you’re never going to pass. Just think of it as, I dunno, a _slightly_ more complicated version of your high school math class. You only left, like, what? A month ago?”

Peter huffs as he rests his chin on the table. “I’m almost _twenty_ , Tones.”

“Alright, a year then.” Tony glances at the paper again, though much of his attention is elsewhere. Namely on his phone. Nothing new. “But I gotta say, if you ever want to live your dream of being a chemist, you _need_ to learn this stuff. I know you don’t like it, no one does, but –”

“ _You_ do,” Peter gripes, though he lifts his head and grabs his pencil.

“No. Much like you, I like _science_.” Tony sets his phone down, _finally_ , and edges over the paper to get a better look. “It’s just that science _requires_ a lot of math. Chemistry included.”

“I like the _chemical_ part of chemistry. I actually _understand_ that part; the math bits freakin’ suck.” Peter frowns when Tony only shakes his head and grabs the stupid homework sheet again. He scribbles another note. Goddamnit.

“Chemistry isn’t all explosions, Pete.” Tony shifts the page back and raises his eyebrows when Peter just stares at him. Maybe Peter looks more annoyed than he’s letting on, but he can’t exactly _help_ it; the math part of _any_ sort of science – whether it be chemistry or engineering or whatever – is boring. It’s important, sure, that doesn’t make it _interesting_.  

“Whatever,” Peter mutters, leaning his cheek on his fist. He looks around the area. The Hall is loud and busy with students rushing in to get food and rushing out just as fast. Or, much like Peter himself, sitting around on their ass for 90 minutes and pretending to do something productive.

Not that anyone really _cares_ anyway. He could probably take a nap, and no one would even notice. Half the people in here are already in their PJs, so the idea isn’t _too_ far-fetched. Peter is unfortunately fully-dressed, though he certainly _could_ go grab his pajamas; his dorm isn’t too far away anyway.

Everyone rushes his peripheral in a blur, just a mess of unimportant faces; though one table eventually stands out. They’re already _staring_ at him. Or at least in his general direction. What the actual fuck.

He quickly looks away, cheeks burning. College-life may trump anything high school has to offer – and trump it by a _long_ shot – but there are still some weird people here. Is there something on his face? Probably. He quickly wipes his cheek on his sleeve and then looks back at Tony, finding him on his phone _again_.

Nothing new.

 _But_ while he has a chance – since Bruce and Jen are still in class – he may as well go for broke:

 “So…” he says, rapping his eraser against the edge of the table. “You never did tell me what you’re working on, exactly.” It’s unlikely that Tony tears his eyes away from his phone long enough to even send Peter the slightest side-eye, but Peter still avoids looking up from his homework. Subtly never has been his forte.

“My quote-unquote, ‘sciency thing’?” Tony says.

“Uh-huh.” Peter chances a glance to find Tony still swiping across the screen of his phone at break-neck speeds. Must be an important conversation. “I mean, you said it had to do with robots and I _love_ robots.”

“Do you know?” Tony deadpans. He does glance up, however briefly, but doesn’t level his stare.  

“I mean…” Peter relaxes a bit, unclenching his stiff shoulders. “I think they’re pretty cool. And I think you should _totally_ show me. Or at least fill me in a bit. I’m – I’m just _curious_ , y’know.”

“Curiosity kills cats, Mr. Parker.”

“But _satisfaction_ brings them _back_ , Mr. _Stark_.” Peter offers a huge grin when Tony finally sends him that infamous death stare. Tony’s glare is probably the least-threatening thing Peter’s ever seen, so he doesn’t relinquish his shit-eating grin. Not for one shit-eating moment.

And eventually, Tony drops all pretense and sets his phone to the side. “Alright,” he says, sighing deeply, like Peter’s asking the _world_ of him or something. Which, for the record, he’s _not_. “I’ll humor you, kid. What d’you want to know?”

Peter pauses. This is it. This is his time. Time to _finally_ ask Tony about the experiments. About the robots. About all the shit he and Bruce are always prattling on about. Because while he _does_ get included in the conversations and everything, he doesn’t know the context.

And context is important. Context is what _drives_ things.

“Are you building any killer robots?” he finally asks.

Tony just stares at him. The look in his eyes is far from here, far from home, far from any plane of existence, like he’s having an out-of-body-experience. Like he’s trying to decide where it all went wrong, and Peter’s not really sure _why_. It’s a totally legit question, even _if_ it’s spurred by a few too many sci-fi specials at 2 A.M. So, sue him.

“Of all the questions you _could_ have asked – I’m givin’ you some leeway here, kid, because there are _very_ few people I’ll talk about this with.” Tony rests his chin his palm, openly gazing at Peter, almost disdainfully. “Are you absolutely _sure_ that _that’s_ the question you wanna open with?”

Peter scoffs as he drums his finger on the edge of the table. “I’m not askin’ for your life story, Tones. I just wanna know if you’re secretly building an army of killer robots.” Nineteen or not, robots are still _cool_. Are still what drives _Peter_ to look toward the future.

“I don’t think the school would let me use their lab if I were building an army of _anything_ ,” Tony says, voice half-muffled by his palm. “Let alone _killer robots_. It’s not exactly Wakanda in terms of viable space.”

Peter blinks. “So, it’s small?” This isn’t exactly what he’d call a prestigious university; it’s not exactly Harvard or Yale or MIT. It’s just a small state university. Why _Tony_ goes here is a mystery – since he’s _apparently_ rich and smart as all hell – but Peter won’t ask.

“I never said _small_. It’s probably just not as big as you’re expecting.” Tony grabs shifts Peter’s homework back to him, and hands him a pencil. “Now, c’mon. You said you needed help, now let me help. You probably have a quiz soon.”

Peter rolls his eyes, though doesn’t argue.

(Tony’s _totally_ assembling an army of killer robots.)

~ ~ ~

By the bad grace of the universe itself, Peter’s next math quiz just so happens to be the very next morning at the butt-crack of dawn. Fuck you, Professor Osborn.

He _does_ pass though. He passes with flying colors. (Or at least _his_ definition of it, considering his sleep-deprivation – a 91%.) Passing is still passing and passing is certainly not _failing_.

When he texts Tony about it – because he _has_ to, right? – Tony replies almost immediately with a “Good job, Pete!” and a smiley face. Tony Stark hardly seems the type to use emojis, but it’s a nice gesture regardless. Peter writes back a quick, “thanks!” and enters his dorm.

Peter’s dormitory is a god-send. A _god-send._ It faces away from the sun, for one, so if he ever decides to take that long-awaited nap – which sounds like the best idea _ever,_ honestly – he won’t have any issues. (Blackout curtains are a future endeavor, _obviously_ , but he’s still a broke college student.)

He flops on his bed, face-down. He doesn’t take off his backpack. He doesn’t even take off his _shoes_. Sleep first, shoes later.

“Why is 8 A.M. a thing?” he mumbles into his pillow. It doesn’t answer. It never does.

Somewhere in the corner, his roommate’s rummaging through the closet. They technically share it, though Peter’s pretty sure Wade has more things. Just in general. Wade has enough knick-knacks to open a pawn shop.

Wade doesn’t respond in jest; he only vaguely hums, though he probably has his headphones in, as always. He always seems to. Whether he’s listening to _music_ is somewhat debatable because he spends far too long in the bathroom to just be checking his Facebook feed while listening to 80s pop ballads. And Peter knows what _he’s_ personally doing when he takes an hour-long shower.

(But teenage hormones go away when you turn twenty, right? Right.)

“Hey, Pete?”

Peter reluctantly twists his head, so his face isn’t smashed into the pillow. Because though he’d like to jump on the Sleeptime Express pronto – at least before his chem class at noon – breathing is still a thing. Breathing is sorta the thing keeping him alive. And shit.

“Wait, never mind. Found it,” Wade however says before Peter gets a chance to open his mouth.

“That’s nice, Wade,” Peter mumbles, half-heartedly waving a hand. There’s a dip on the bed.

“Hey, you doin’ alright?”

It takes Peter far too long to realize that Wade sounds a lot closer than before. Like, really, really close. Lazily, he peeks open one eye to find Wade laying right next to him, their faces only inches apart.

_“Jesus Christ!”_

His heart spikes, and he rolls straight off the bed, landing hard on the floor.

“Whoa there, sweetums,” Wade says, like he _hasn’t_ just given Peter a mini heart attack, “don’t hurt yourself.”

Peter can’t even bring himself say a quick-witted, “don’t call me that,” because his heart is beating far too fast for its own good. He only groans. Everything hurts. His back, his ass, his head, his pride.

“Sorry if I scared you, sleepy head,” Wade says with a mirthful laugh, holding out a hand. Peter takes it gratefully and sits back on the bed. “An 8 A.M. _math_ class sounds like literal torture.”

“You’re telling me,” Peter mutters. He rubs his aching eyes with the heels of his hands. “But I got an A on the quiz, so there’s that.” When he looks back up, he finds Wade already staring at him, smiling without a care in the goddamn world.  

His heart _flutters_.

Which is bad. Like, _super_ bad.

(But like, sleep deprivation, right? It does funny things to a person’s psyche.)

(… Right? Right.)

“That’s really great, Peter,” Wade says as he grabs his hoodie. “I know how much you hate it. Though come to think of it,” he adds thoughtfully, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “who in their right mind actually _enjoys_ math? Like, is there a fandom for _math_?”

“Scientists,” Peter supplies easily, his voice coming out less shaky than it probably _should_. He’s pretty sure the tips of his ears are burning, and his hair isn’t nearly long enough to cover them. Maybe he should invest in a hat. Hats are nice. Ned probably has a hat he can borrow.

“I guess. I mean, it got us to the fucking _moon_ and everythin’, so there’s _that_.” Wade pops his headphones back in, fidgeting with his phone for a moment. “Anyway, class awaits. Don’t wait up. Think I’m gonna grab some food with Nessa later though. You want anythin’?”

Peter quickly shakes his head. An eruption of a very bad, yet very _familiar_ emotion only serves to remind him that denial isn’t _just_ a river in Africa. How cliché. He faintly smiles. “Uh, no. Thanks though. I – I think I’ll – I’m gonna take a nap before chem.” God knows he needs it.

“You _definitely_ look like you need it.” Wade pauses for a moment to look him over, quietly adding, “but hey, are you okay?” Peter can’t help but think about how much he _hates_ that. Because the stupid Wishful Thinking Fairy keeps rearing its ugly head and it’s not like Wade’s expression or tone or anything betrays _anything_ remotely resembling… anything… else. He only looks mildly concerned, nothing more, nothing less.

“I’m fine,” Peter eventually says, running a hand through his jacked-up hair. It won’t lie flat. “Just – I’m kinda stressed. Tryin’ to get used to the college life, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Wade frowns. “But just try and get some sleep, ‘kay? And like, you can text me if you need anything.”

Peter nods. “Will do.” He fails, of course, to mention that he and Wade don’t even have each other’s phone numbers. They’ve only known each other since August. The look on _his_ face must betray something, however – disappointment, confusion? Who knows? – because the next thing he knows, Wade _does_ point out this little fact. He asks for Peter’s number and Peter blankly recites it.

“Cool, cool,” Wade says, smiling as he types it in. “I really gotta get goin’, but I’ll text you. Sleep tight, Pete!”

Peter half-heartedly waves him off, offering a smile of his own. The moment the door shuts, however, he drops the act and buries his head underneath the pillow. Darkness is safe. Darkness is sacred. Darkness won’t make his heart literally _flutter_.

Because fluttering can only mean _one thing,_ and this is going to be one long, fucking year if he has to deal with _that_ on top of everything else. The college life _alone_ is scary enough without _that_. What the hell.

When his phone buzzes, he sighs and uncovers his head.

From: _Unknown number:_ **If you want, I’ll bring you some cinnamon twists.**

From: _Unknown number:_ **Actually, fuck it. You’re gettin’ cinnamon twists whether you like it or not.**

From: _Unknown number:_ **:)**

Peter heart skips another beat. Goddamnit.

~ ~ ~

From: _Ned:_ so… wuts the problem??? 

Peter sighs, careful to keep his phone poised under the desk. Not that any of his teachers seem to _care_ about his inattentiveness; if anything, most of them seem to have a sort of, “hey, man, _you’re_ the one paying to go here, so whatever,” attitude. But it’s still probably _polite_ to hide it.

To: _Ned:_ **im 19**

From: _Ned:_ and?

To: _Ned_ : **im too old for this**

From: _Ned:_ so your not allowed to have a crush?

To: _Ned:_ **I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON HER**

From: _Ned:_ pretty sure u do dude. 

Peter shakes his phone like a Magic 8-Ball, willing Ned to just _agree_ with him. (Even if he sorta, maybe, just a little… _fabricated_ some stuff. Like… gender, for instance. Not because he’s in _denial_ or anything though; that’s – that’s just ridiculous. It’s totally ludicrous. Just – no. Absolutely –)

To: _Ned:_ **im not in high school anymore bro**

To: _Ned:_ **like wtf dude no**

To: _Ned:_ **i dont get crushes anyway**

For several minutes there is no response. It’s enough time to actually make Peter somewhat pay attention to the front. He should anyway, since chemistry is at least _interesting._ Luckily, the student teacher, Matt, hasn’t noticed a thing. Or he at least hasn’t _said_ anything. Then again, the guy is literally _blind_ , so –

His phone screen lights up.

From: _Ned:_ liz

From: _Ned:_ gwen

From: _Ned:_ felicia

From: _Ned:_ & wether or not ull admit it, i KNOW u had a thing for MJ

From: _Ned:_ maybe even Jessica tho idk bout that one

From: _Ned:_ need i go on?

Peter’s face heats up in an instant. So, _maybe_ he’s crushed on people. And crushed _hard_. But never – not _ever_ – not on a _guy._ (Except maybe Harry. And Danny. And _maybe_ even Ned, himself, but that’s – that’s all just super irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, right? Right. Ned never has to know anyway.) So, he can’t have a _thing_ – he’s not allowed to have a _thing_ –

To: _Ned:_ **alright alright i get it**

To: _Ned:_ **but that doesnt mean i have one NOW**

From: _Ned:_ whatevs dude keep tellin urself that

Peter shuts off his phone.

~ ~ ~

“I regret college.”

It takes several seconds for Jen to look away from her papers; she blinks, maybe in surprise, maybe to clear her head, it’s hard to tell. Either way, she says, “what?”

Peter twists his napkin in both hands. It’s beginning to tear, but whatever; the waitress will probably bring him a new one anyway. She always does. Hell, she’s already heading back with a huge pot of coffee.

“And here you go.” The waitress – a pretty blonde named Beth – sets the pot down near the edge, far from the dozens of papers Jennifer has strewn over the already tiny table. “Anything else for you guys?” she asks with a thousand-watt smile.

Peter and Jen shake their heads.

“Alrighty, well, just let me know.” Beth walks off, her smile not faltering even as another customer demands another “less shitty” cup of joe. The café isn’t large by any means, so his voice travels; several other patrons turn to look, including Peter and Jen. Dude looks like he’s at war with _himself_ more than Beth, but Beth doesn’t argue; she only nods and agrees to remake his drink.

Jen pours herself a cup, taking special care to send the man a pressing glare; he keeps muttering to himself, though averts his eyes to his own lap. “You can’t _regret_ college, Peter,” she eventually says. She takes a long sip of her drink; a bit sloshes out the side, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I _can,_ and I _will_ ,” he solemnly declares, puffing out his chest. It doesn’t do much except make Jen smirk.  He hears the unspoken comment about how he looks about as threatening as a newborn kitten. If Ned or MJ (god, _especially_ MJ) were here, they’d say the same.

“But you just _got_ here. Is this really what you wanted to talk about?” Jen glances at her papers, almost longingly, like her criminal justice class is more important than Peter's mental crisis. As if.

“Okay, so I don’t –” Peter sighs, deflating. He rests his cheek on his fist. “I don’t _regret_ it, I just –”

Jen raises her eyebrows. “You just…?”

Peter wills his face _not_ to heat up. Because he can’t just admit that he’s upset over something as stupid as – well… that _thing_ that he definitely _doesn’t_ have. “I just feel like – my classes,” he fumbles, playing with his unused fork. He presses on the prongs and the end bounces. “They’re a lot harder than I thought they’d be, I – I guess.” Which isn’t _technically_ a lie.

Jen offers a smile as she turns back to her papers. “Oh, Peter. I wouldn’t worry about that.” Her smile fades into a deep frown as she picks up her cup; a large, brown ring stamps the corner of one of the papers. “Damnit.”

“I mean, Tony’s been helping me, but –”

“You’re a smart kid, Pete.” Jen mops the paper with her own (noticeably _un_ torn) napkin. “You’ll get it.”

Peter doesn’t bother trying to argue. He only nods, glancing back at the crazy man in the black hoodie. The dude’s still talking to himself.

What a weirdo.

~ ~ ~


	4. Bucky II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliché plot is cliché. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Bucky tugs at the frayed strings, pulling his hood tighter around his ears. The wind, however, doesn’t seem to care; it seeps through the material anyway, like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. His ears honestly _ache_ and he winces as another gust breezes by.

A few feet away, Clint stands poised with his bow-and-arrow, aiming for a series of targets set about fifty feet away. They’re nothing more than plain red and white bullseyes painted on large, wooden planks; nothing fancy. It’s hard to tell from far away, but Bucky knows they’re riddled with arrow holes. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Clint and Kate _are_ good archers; the wind has done little to throw off their aim, or even the trajectory of their arrows. He can’t deny for one moment that they’re not good at what they do, having watched them practice shooting for the better part of the last hour.

However, the novelty has long worn off: It’s _dull_ , watching Clint and Kate pick an arrow, draw the string, and shoot. When supplies get low, they’ll walk (or in Kate’s case, literally _skip)_ to the targets, grab the arrows, and come back. Wash, rinse, repeat. It _probably_ wouldn’t be so bad if it _weren’t_ for the almost icy air making him want to slice his own ears off. Not for the first time, Bucky longs for a hat. _Any_ hat. Just  _some_ kind of hat to help stop the  _pain_.

“We couldn’t wait _inside_ ,” he says loudly. “Y’know, where it’s _not_ fucking cold.”

Clint ignores him, though Kate glances over.

“Natasha will be here any minute now,” she says, a little _too_ cheerfully. She doesn’t seem at _all_ bothered by the weather, wearing nothing more than a pair of workout pants and a thin sweater to protect herself from autumn’s embrace. Her dark hair keeps blowing in her face, but she doesn’t seem perturbed by _that_ either; she only absently brushes it off and continues watching Clint shoot his stupid bow-and-arrow at the stupid targets.

 “I mean, I think Steve’s got it under control anyway,” Bucky grumbles, folding his arms. “He actually _spoke_ to the guy.”

“One conversation does _not_ make them BFFs,” Clint says, glancing at him. This is obviously very, very true, but the fact that Steve’s even had a single, solitary conversation with the guy is a miracle even in itself. It’s definitely worthy of praise, considering Steve’s tendency to swallow his tongue when faced with someone he actually _likes_.

“It’s a jumping point, at least,” Kate chimes in cheerfully, drawing her bow. “Better than nothing.”

Clint rolls his eyes at her. “Either-fucking-way,” he says, “trust me. Nat can help.”

“Whatever,” Bucky mutters. He pulls out his phone, sending a quick text to Sam.

To: _Bird brain: **hey, i’m still waitin on natasha**_ **_& it’s really fuckin cold out here._ **

Sam’s response is immediate, though that’s nothing new; the guy plays with his phone more often than Steve and Bucky combined: **she’ll be there, dont worry, clint trusts her so i do too**

Bucky sighs, leaning against the chain-link fence. Tetris it is then. This might take a while. Which is _fine_ – as long as she _shows up._ Because if he winds up dying of hypothermia, he _will_ let it be known that it’s _technically_ Steve’s fault. Because out of literally _everyone_ in this stupid school, Steve just _had_ to fall for Tony Fucking Stark.

Ugh.

Clint and Kate continue practicing their respective parts as Robin Hood and Princess Merida, only speaking in brief sentences. Or grunts. Though the grunts are mostly from Clint’s end. Bucky doesn’t bother tearing his eyes away from his phone until he hears Clint say something that _isn’t_ archery-related:

“Well, look who _finally_ showed up.”

He looks up to find a red-haired woman standing before them. She looks anything _but_ cold, despite not wearing a jacket. “I got here as soon as I could,” she says, her breathing a bit ragged, face a bit pink. “Hill’s been on my ass lately about missing practice.”

“So, just quit,” Clint says.

“I would, but I need the elective credit,” Natasha says. She tugs at the hem of her T-shirt that reads, _Science doesn’t care what you believe_. Then she turns to Bucky, the corner of her lip curling into a small smile. “You must be James.”

Bucky nods, holding out his hand. She takes it; her hand is soft and warm, a stark contrast to the chilly day. “Everyone calls me Bucky.” He smiles earnestly when she raises an eyebrow. “Steve came up with it when we were kids and it just kinda stuck.” The memory of baby-faced Stevie, all of seven-years-old, struggling to pronounce the name ‘Buchanan’ is still fresh.

“Ah, yes.” Natasha glances at Clint; he smirks as he turns back to his bow. “The guy who walked into a door ‘cause Tony told him to tie his shoelaces.” It’s a bit hard to tell by her straight-laced tone, but Bucky _swears_ she’s fighting an urge to giggle.

“He ain’t good at talkin’ to people he actually _likes_ ,” Bucky says with a chuckle of his own. Not that Bucky _himself_ is much better; his stupid crush on Sam a few years back made for some really, _really_ awkward moments. Ones that he really _hopes_ his friends never noticed. Steve  _might_ have, though he's sure Sam, himself, remained blissfully unaware. 

Natasha nods. “I can tell.” And she opens her mouth, like she’s about to add more, but Clint pipes in:

“Nat, you’re still friends with Bruce, right?”

She immediately stiffens, smile sliding away. “I already told you that I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Not even to just ask a _couple_ questions –”

“Clint,” Kate mutters, playing with her bow-string. She avoids everyone’s eyes and in a way, Bucky really can’t blame her; it’s asphyxiating, how quickly the mood shifts. “Just drop it.”  

“I’m _just_ sayin’, I know you and Tones aren’t on the best terms right now either.” Clint shoulders his own bow, setting a hand on his hip. “I figure it’d be easier to ask his best friend instead.”

“Then get James Rhodes on the phone,” Natasha snaps, voice clipped.

“Rhodes is in Pasadena. _Plus_ , I don’t have his number anyway, so –”

Kate lays a hand on his shoulder, her smile faint. “We should start cleaning up,” she says, motioning toward the targets. “It’s getting dark.”

“But we –”

“ _Clinton_.” Kate shakes her head, and grabs his arm, steering him away. “Let’s grab the arrows and then get some coffee.”

He nods, maybe in understanding, maybe not. Either way, he finally closes his mouth and follows her to the field.

Bucky waits until they’re well out of earshot before turning back to Natasha. “Hey, are you –”

She’s wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Oh, no.

He shifts his weight between legs, frowning at his shoes. This is _so_ far out of his emotional range. Not that he’s never been around a _crying girl_ before. Of _course_ he has. He’s had numerous girlfriends over the years. Hell, he’s had numerous _boyfriends_ and half of _them_ have cried in front of him. _Steve’s_ cried in front of him.

Doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it though.

“Uh, sorry,” he blurts out, the word sounding hollow and meaningless even to his own ears. “Is there anything I can –”

She shakes her head. “No. I just – I just wish Clint would understand that when I say _no_ , I _mean_ no.” In a way, Bucky _does_ want to know what happened, though he can guess. Breaking up _is_ hard to do and not everyone is able to remain friends afterward. Steve and Peggy might be the exception, he thinks.

He glances back at Clint and Kate. Clint’s definitely getting an earful by the looks of things. When he mentions this to Natasha, she laughs; it’s a short, almost mirthless chuckle, but it’s something.

“He’s right though,” she says afterward, absently rubbing her arms; the cold seems to be finally settling in. “Tony’s been avoiding me, too. Probably just out of loyalty to Bruce or some bullshit.”

“How do you expect to help then?” Bucky asks. He shrugs off his hoodie and offers it without thinking. He may be cold, but he’s at least wearing a _sweater_ underneath. Her T-shirt isn’t nearly enough to protect against the wind chill.

“He can’t avoid me forever,” she says, raising an eyebrow. She takes the jacket anyway though, setting it around her shoulders. “I was friends with Tony first anyway; he’s pretty forgiving.” She pulls his jacket tighter as another breeze rolls by; he quells a shiver, cupping an ear with his hand. “Your friend could definitely do worse.”

Bucky can’t help but smile. Just a bit. “Stevie can do whatever he wants as long as he’s happy. I’m just lookin’ out for the kid.” It’s a common thread in their friendship, something Bucky’s been doing their entire lives – and probably will _continue_ to do well into the future.

Natasha smiles up at him; it’s the most genuine expression he’s seen on her thus far, reaching the outer edges of her eyes. “You’re a good friend, James.”

“I try.”

~ ~ ~

The University’s Halloween decorations seem to grow more and more campy with each passing year. Granted, Bucky’s only been here for three years (which means he’s _finally_ almost done with school), but he’s seen enough pumpkins to last a lifetime.

This year’s motif seems to be superheroes, with each so-called ‘Jack-O-Lantern’ representing a different member of the Justice League. It’s a cool idea, but…

“What the hell does Batman have to do with Halloween?” he asks, nodding at one particular pumpkin sitting by the entrance to the Science Department. The fact that it’s not even _carved_ says a lot; it’s merely painted, a sloppy black and yellow rendition of the Bat symbol.

Sam glances up from his phone. “Dunno, man. I don’t question anything they do ‘round here anymore.”

Steve, on the other hand, says, “Halloween is about being whatever you wanna be.” He shrugs, offering a small smile. “Why not superheroes?”

“True,” Bucky admits, scratching his head. He purposely doesn’t mention Steve’s little obsession _with_ superheroes – Superman, in particular. That can stay between them.  

Beyond the tacky pumpkins – and there are more superhero-themed ones, like Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Aquaman, among others – fake cobwebs adorn just about every nook and cranny available; half of them are spray painted an obnoxious highlighter green, realism be damned.

It looks less creepy, more… carnival. Like the decorating committee or whatever decided to say, ‘fuck all, let’s make it green 'cause green means evil.’ Obviously.

He opens his mouth to say exactly this, but before he’s even able to mutter a quick, “well, _Disney_ did it,” Natasha appears at his shoulder. She falls in step with the trio, an apple in one hand, Bucky’s hoodie in the other.

“I believe that this is yours,” she says, handing it over with a smile.

 As he takes it, Bucky glances at Sam and Steve: Sam’s jaw drops, point-blank. It’s a satisfying sight, if Bucky’s honest with himself. He hides a smirk beneath his hand.

Steve, however, doesn’t seem bothered; he introduces himself easily with a simple nod.

Natasha smiles at him and then turns to Sam, who’s barely in the process of picking his jaw up off the floor. She doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. “Natasha Romanov,” she says, sticking out her hand like she’s propositioning a business deal.

“Sam Wil –”

“Don’t mind him,” Bucky cuts in, placing a gentle hand on Sam’s wrist when he reaches forward. “He’s new here.”

“ _I’m_ new,” Sam echoes, drawing his hand back. It drops lamely to his side. He stares into the void, mouth hanging ajar. Nothing else comes out.

Silently, Bucky cheers. He’s finally does it. He’s done the impossible: he’s rendered Sam Wilson _speechless_. It’s a miracle for the ages! Call the media, call the press – _fuck_ , call the _president_ – he’s _done_ it!

Unfortunately, Natasha doesn’t seem quite as excited by this turn of events. She just takes a large bite out of her granny smith and turns back to Steve. Or rather, turns to the side of Steve’s head since he’s too busy staring at something across the way.

Bucky cranes his neck to, unsurprisingly, find Tony Stark standing nearby with Bruce Banner and Jennifer Walters in tow. Peter Parker is also on standby, though he’s clearly not paying attention; he’s frantically typing something on his phone, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“You know,” Natasha says, voice level even as her expression darkens, “if you stare any harder, you’re going to burn holes in the wall.”

“Man, your comment didn’t even make any damn _sense_ ,” Sam finally blurts out.

Bucky smirks. “Still made you shut up for five seconds.”

“I can help you," Natasha says, ignoring them both. She takes another bite. "Or at least  _try._ " 

Steve doesn’t say anything for several seconds. He only continues staring across the way, eyes unfocused. If Bucky didn’t know Steve so well, he wouldn’t be able to tell where his eyes are drawn, but Steve's about as subtle as a fuckin' typhoon. Pining is pining. 

Natasha smirks, her eyes catching Bucky’s; he returns the favor, ten-fold. “Because I promise, he _will_ eventually notice. Tony may not be the most observant guy on the planet, but he’s _going_ to notice.”  

Steve whips back around so quick Bucky’s a little afraid his neck’s going to snap. “What – what exactly would you even _do_?” he asks in a small voice, scuffing his heel against the floor; it leaves a noticeable streak on the shiny linoleum, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Natasha finishes her apple, swinging the core by its stem. She stares straight ahead, smiling almost serenely. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll think of something.”

Honestly, the whole idea feels a little… middle school, but _Steve_ certainly isn’t going to do anything about it. At least not before the next millennium. The main reason he scored a date with Peggy Carter was because  _she_ asked _him_.

Bucky nods at the tacky pumpkins. “Maybe a party?”

Natasha shrugs. “I considered that. Tony goes to a _lot_ of parties, so it’s not like it’d be difficult.”

“You could play some Seven Minutes in Heaven, if you get my drift,” Sam says, a _little_ too loudly, garnering a _little_ too much attention. And if Bucky weren’t at least _mildly_ amused at the idea – because Steve can barely talk to the guy without running into solid objects, let alone _kiss_ him – he’d smack Sam upside the head.

Steve looks like he either wants to burst into flames or melt through the floor. “I’m twenty-two, _not_ fourteen,” he mutters, staring at said floor like its his only refuge. The fact that Stark and his entourage are still in the area _probably_ doesn’t help, though fortunately, none of them seem to have noticed Sam’s little outburst anyway.

“ _Maybe_ start with becoming his friend first.” Natasha makes a walking motion with her fingers. “Baby steps.”

“Party it is then?” Sam says with a wide grin. He claps his hands. “We just gotta get a place, a _band_ , and a shit ton of food, and everythin’ will be all set!”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard, he lolls his entire head. His eyes graze the ceiling, finding more green cobwebs and streamers. It looks like a cheap movie set. “Alright, when you get the money for all that shit, _please_ , let us know.”

Sam only scoffs, waving a hand. “It doesn’t gotta be anything _fancy_.”

“I mean, Tony _was_ at the Maximoff’s Christmas soiree last year,” Natasha adds. “But everyone was drunk, so I doubt anyone remembers anything.”

It’s true. Bucky can’t remember much after his third shot of tequila, but in his _defense_ , a college party is _still_ a college party. Even if it’s being held in someone’s shitty basement. The last thing he _does_ remember is waking up on the floor with a hangover the size of Australia.  _What_ floor exactly is a mystery, but it was  _a_ floor, nonetheless. 

“I know I don’t,” Sam says, glancing at his phone. “Anyway, guys. Gotta jet. We’ll talk more ‘bout this later.” He walks off, clapping Steve’s shoulder.

Nothing happens. Steve doesn’t lift his gaze or mutter anything under his breath or _anything_. He only covers his face with his hands.

Bucky can’t help but laugh.

~ ~ ~

From: _Bird brain:_ **so when we throwin that party???**

From: _Rogers:_ Can we talk this over a little more? I’m not sure if I want to risk you guys shoving me and Tony in a closet together.

From: _Bird brain:_ **aw, ur no fun, steve**

From: _Natasha:_ **I’m still considering the idea.**

From:  _Bird brain:_ **which one??? the party or the closet?**

From:  _Bird brain:_ **or BOTH? ;)**

To: _Bird brain, Rogers, Natasha: **U guys should see Steve right now. he looks like he’s gonna spontaneously combust**_

From: _Rogers:_ I’m locking you out of the dorm tonight.

To: _Bird brain, Rogers, Natasha: **:(**_

**~ ~ ~**

Afternoons are _definitely_ Bucky’s downtime. He enjoys Steve’s company, don’t get him wrong, but sometimes – sometimes it’s just nice to have some time alone. He’s able to take a break; able to… unwind. Because now that _he_ knows about Steve’s stupid crush, that’s _all_ Steve ever wants to talk about.

Tony, Tony, _Tony._

It’s exhausting. 

So, when a knock at his dorm door _interrupts_ his all-too important ‘ _him’ time_ , he sighs. Either Steve’s gone and locked himself out again, or –

“Alright, alright, hold on.”

After pulling on some pajama pants, he answers. Natasha stands a couple feet away, hands neatly folded behind her back. She’s staring at her shoes, seemingly determined to never meet Bucky’s eye.

He frowns. "What's wrong?" 

When she finally lifts her gaze, however, and their eyes _do_ meet, she loses it. And she doesn’t just _laugh_. She fuckin’ _howls._ Like a goddamn hyena, throwing her head back and everything. Her face flushes scarlet, mascara staining her cheeks.

Innocent passerbys shoot the pair odd glances, though no one stops to chat. _Thankfully_. Bucky’s already a little embarrassed for her, for _himself_. He’d never be able to handle explaining this – whatever the hell this _is_ – to a complete _stranger_. He snatches her arm, dragging her inside.

“Natasha, what –”

She holds up a finger as she plops down on Steve’s bed. “Wait, wait. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Are you _drunk_?” She _could_ be. He’s only known her a few days, after all. Who knows what she’s like when completely _shit-faced_? This – this could be _it_. The idea is honestly  _terrifying_. They'll never be able to get drunk together; at least not in  _public_. The shame alone would kill him more than any hangover could. 

Natasha quickly shakes her head. “I promise, no. I’m _not_. I just – I came here because I _learned_ something today.”

Bucky sits on his own bed. This certainly isn’t how he’d planned to spend the day. He’d planned to maybe spend some time alone in the room, maybe take a nap, and then maybe venture out into the real world. Maybe see a movie. Go explore the city. Not watch a girl he’s only just met have a laugh attack.

When Natasha _does_ finally calm down, she says, “I’m sorry. I really am. I – I just learned something I thought you might find interesting.” She looks around, eyebrows raised, like she’s only just realized where she is. “I take it Steve's in class?”

Bucky shrugs. “Prob'bly.” It’s not like he has the kid’s schedule memorized. Steve might be in class, or he might be out filling more of his sketchbook. Most likely in the courtyard. He's going to need a new one soon, from what Bucky can tell. Steve’s insatiable desire for inspiration _is_ honestly inspiring, even _if_ his inspiration comes from staring at his crush like a twitterpated moron.

“Might be for the best.” Natasha wipes her cheek with her sleeve. "I think it's best you don't  _both_ hear it from me." 

 “Alright then,” Bucky says with a sigh. This should be good. “Go ahead. Lay it on me.”  

 When Natasha takes a deep breath, Bucky can’t help but do the same. Not that she has anything _bad_ to say. It can’t be anything _bad_ , right? Nothing _bad_ could possibly warrant her to _laugh_ at him. _Right?_

“Basically,” she says, holding up a finger, “Tony _might_ think that you and Steve are dating.”

Bucky blinks. “What?”  

She scratches her forearm; it’s a clear attempt to seem busy. “I overheard him on the phone. He mentioned an artist he’d met, and how he thought Steve’s drawing of _you_ , in particular, struck him as… special?” She shrugs a shoulder, her eyes skimming just about everything in the room _except_ Bucky.

“Steve and I, we’re not –” Bucky hops up because the energy just fucking _pulsating_ in him is just too goddamn strong to _sit_.  Holy shit. Holy _shit_. “Why the _hell_ would he assume that just because Steve _drew_ me that he would – that _we_ would _ever –_ ”

“I _know_ ,” Natasha says and to her _credit_ , she seems at least mildly sympathetic. Mildly.  More amused than anything. “But I mean, it can’t be just _that_. I’m sure there’s another reason.”

 Bucky drops back on his bed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Well, that’s just _great._ ”

And if a beacon is sent through time and space _itself,_ Steve appears. He seems only vaguely aware of Natasha’s presence, his attention set on Bucky and Bucky alone. “I think we have a problem,” he says in a small voice, callously tossing his backpack to the nearest corner; a few papers spill out.

“Yes?” Bucky sighs.  

“Sam told me that Tony thinks –”

“That you’re dating _me_?” Bucky motions to Natasha. She waves, offering Steve a lopsided grin. She is _far_ too amused for her own good. Jesus Christ. “Yeah, I know. I got the memo.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. He sits on his bed, dropping his face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have showed him,” he mumbles, voice muffled by his palms. “Why did I _show_ him? I mean, it’s not like my drawing of you is _obscene_ or anything, but it’s… I dunno. I guess - I guess it's a little more detailed than the one of Sam, but _you_ were more cooperative and -”

“Y’know,” Natasha says, absently rubbing Steve’s back; it seems to offer little comfort. He doesn’t budge. If anything, he looks like he’s trying to burrow _deeper_ into the darkness. “I think we could work with this. Why _not_ date each other?”

 _This_ gets Steve’s attention. He lifts his head, his face flushed up to his ears. “That’s a terrible idea.”

Bucky honestly doesn’t disagree. “Why the hell would we do _that?_ We’re tryin’ to get the punk a date with _Stark_ , not _me_.”

Natasha clicks her tongue, eyes grazing the ceiling. “I mean, _fake_ date.”

“Why are you tryin’ to turn us into a teen drama cliché?” Bucky asks, rolling his own eyes. While she _might_ have a point – keyword: _might_ – it’s still a terrible idea. He and Steve have never gone down that path for a _reason_ ; the whole thing just sounds… awkward. “ _And_ , more to the point, why can’t we just, I dunno – tell Stark that he has the wrong idea?”

“Because if you _pretend_ to date, Tony might get jealous,” she says matter-of-factly.

Bucky stares at her for a moment. Somewhere underneath the cool facade, an evil mastermind lurks. He hasn’t had the idea to make someone genuinely _jealous_ since, like – high school? Maybe even earlier? “You’ve been hangin’ out with Sam, haven’t you?” he asks.  

Natasha has the audacity to _shrug_. Like it’s no big deal, being told to pretend to date your best friend of fifteen years. What the hell? “Just think about it.” She then stands and walks out, her hands perched behind her back.

Bucky glances at Steve, who's taken to burying his entire head under a catacomb of pillows. And honestly, Bucky can't even blame him. 

"Well, shit." 

 


	5. Jennifer I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love writing from Peter and Jen's POVS, most of this story will be told alternating between Steve and Bucky; Peter and Jen are basically sublots, though everything does eventually meet in the middle. I promise.

The school laboratory is almost unrecognizable from its initial incarnation, which resembled nothing more than a simple classroom: White walls, wooden cabinets, empty trophy cases. There still aren't any trophies, though the new glass cases, which line the perimeter, are all filled with an array of tubes of various sizes, some vacant, some containing multicolored chemical compounds. An abundance of half-finished experiments lay in the corner of the room; most look like robot parts, like Tony and Bruce spend their days slaughtering innocent machines.

The idea _would_ be laughable if Jen hadn’t witnessed Tony once wield a welding machine like a pistol. It’s looked too natural to be a coincidence; the man must build a _lot_ of prototypes _and_ subsequently murder them in cold… wires. Cold and heartless machines they may be, they're still a _bit_ too lifelike sometimes, even if they don't technically resemble humans; it seems almost... wrong, to kill them off so easily. 

She tries not to think too much about it. 

The main attraction sits on one of the desks near the center of the room: A crane-like robot that can clamp onto nearly anything. DUM-E is (supposedly) _just_ a prototype, too, but Tony almost treats it like a real person. He certainly _lectures_ it a lot; mostly on not wasting fire retardant. (Which is a bit _weird_ , really, because the robot's  _just_ trying to help: Tony sets himself on fire at _least_ once a week; how he still even has _eyebrows_ is a mystery for the ages.)

He seems almost unwilling to get rid of it though. Like it’s secretly his pride and joy. (Not that he’ll ever _admit_ it.)

Tony and Bruce stand gathered around the table with the robot, staring at the large sheet of blue paper. Jen, however, sits at a desk closer to the robo-corpses, trying hard not to nod off. It doesn’t help that the whole room is dimly lit, only partially showered in a florescent blue. It makes the room feel smaller, almost claustrophobic, and the partially destroyed robots do  _not_ help things. The room almost feels like a graveyard for failed experiments. Not even the color-ridden periodic table adorning the entrance can liven it up. 

“Are we almost _done_?” she says.

Tony and Bruce glance over in such tandem that it almost looks rehearsed. Both pairs of eyebrows raise, like they’re surprised that they do, _indeed_ , still have company. It’s nearing 2 A.M. and they’re _still_ in the lab, _still_ pouring over whatever the hell experiment they’re working on _this_ week.

“I know you’re tired, Jen,” Bruce says, standing to full height. He tries flattening his hair to no avail; he looks like he’s just rolled straight out of bed, rumpled clothes and all. His button-down is only half-tucked in his pants. “If you need to go, Tony and I can take it from here.”

Jen refuses to mention that they _have_ been ‘taking it from here,’ since they’ve basically demoted her from lab partner to ‘witness.’ Just in case DUM-E _does_ completely deplete its seemingly _endless_ supply of fire retardant and they need someone to call emergency services. Even though all they’ve been doing is staring at a piece of paper and _occasionally_ jotting down notes.

She only looks him over, eyeing the dark circles and disheveled hair; his hands have almost become permanent fixtures on his head at this point. “You’re one to talk.”

Bruce at least has the gall to look mildly ashamed, though Tony _tuts_ her. “I already told Brucie that I’m _not_ keeping him.”

Jen raises her eyebrows. “Right.” _That’s_ why Tony keeps lightly smacking Bruce’s shoulder every time it looks like he’s about to fall asleep standing up; because he’s _not_ keeping Bruce here against his will. She stands and strides over to their table, trying to catch just one, simple glimpse of the schematic. However, Tony snatches it up and hides it back behind his back.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he says, literally wagging his finger. “We told you. No one’s allowed to see it until it’s _done_.”

“Oh, for God’s – just let me _see_.” Any attempt to reach behind him is met with more tuts and many, many sidesteps. Jen has a good two or three inches on Tony – the short bastard – but he’s definitely quicker. “You keep me here half the night and you won’t even let me see the _schematic?_ ”

Tony shakes his head. He also has a catalogue of deep crevasses under his eyes, but his wide-eyed, almost wild expression betrays nothing. He probably hasn’t slept in _days_. Nothing new. “Nope. Not yet. We’re so, _so_ close, Jen. So close. And _then_ you can see it, alright?”

Jen eyes Bruce who does nothing more than shrug and sit back down. Traitor.

“You’re not even _doing_ anything,” she snaps. Exhaustion provides enough wear-and-tear on a _normal_ day when she goes to bed at a half-way _normal_ hour. And she still has a lot of homework to eventually sift through. Maybe she _should’ve_ brought her bag, but the threat of a sudden flash-flame (or flood) sort of deterred any want to bring anything half-way _important_ to the school lab.

“We’ve been doing _plenty_ , thanks,” Tony says haughtily, not-so-subtly sticking the paper in his back pocket. “And the end product will be worth it. It will _be_ very much worth all the…” He haphazardly trails off, craning his neck to look somewhere behind her.

Jen turns to find her cousin calmly snoozing on the table, his arms splayed out and glasses askew. “At least he’s sleeping,” she mutters, shaking her head. It’s not exactly the _best_ spot for a nap, but a nap is a nap. When she turns back to Tony, with the sole intent of telling him to do the same – even if it means taking a very uncomfortable-looking nap on the other side of the table – she finds him wagging his finger at DUM-E.

She doesn’t bother even _trying_ to understand why. She just rolls her eyes and leaves.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

~ ~ ~

Unlike the cold laboratory, the library _is_ a sanctuary. It's warm and bright and an absolute _godsend_ for the tired college student who just wants to get their stuff done without interruption. As much as she enjoys the boys' company, an occasional break is nice. A chance to work on _her_ stuff for once, and not just play witness for Tony and Bruce, or play mother hen to Peter. The library is also one of few places _required_ to remain silent. Not that this always _happens_ , of course, but Jen isn’t too willing to call anyone out if they _aren’t_. Confrontation isn’t quite her forte. She’s not _Tony,_ for Christ’s sake.

Most days, she brings her phone and a pair of cheap headphones, anyway. They help drown out any and all excess noise. However, she’s relatively sure that Kate decided to borrow said headphones today, so she’s _trying_ to do without. _Trying_. The incessant shuffling and sniffling seems more exacerbated than usual, but still, Jen persists. She’s passing this class if it literally _kills_ her. Numerous papers – most relating to the ideology of serial killers and _why_ they do what they do – lay scattered over the tiny table; the chaos has a _point,_ however. It is far from randomized, despite what the boys may say.

She’s certainly more organized than either Tony or Bruce. Even _Peter_ is at least able to _somewhat_ keep his things together; his backpack isn’t a jumbled mess of failed plans for future science experiments. (At least from what she can _tell_.) 

She’s able to scribble a few sporadic thoughts into a notebook before something, inevitably breaks her concentration. A piece of crumpled paper hits the back of her head. It doesn’t hurt, of course, but the train comes screeching to a halt anyway.

“What the hell?” she mutters.

Looking around is a useless endeavor. There are too many people in here, and none of them seem interested in paying attention to _her_. Everyone seems to be laying low, their heads bowed down, their eyes on their work (or in some cases, their phones). She frowns and grabs the paper.

Nothing’s written on it.

She frowns. Maybe it’s a mistake; maybe it was meant to stray _over_ her head, rather than dead-smack the back –

A second piece grazes her ear, landing right in the mess of papers. It’s more tightly balled, much less subtle in its execution. She opens it.

_Now that I have your attention, come to the magazine rack._

“This sounds vaguely… stalkerish,” she murmurs, glancing back _at_ the magazines. Still, no one’s looking at her. No one’s even _by_ the magazine rack. A few people are talking among themselves, but no one’s paying attention to _her_.

She still strolls over, however, leaving her things. Loki Odinson stands just out of frame, nonchalantly flipping through a magazine entitled _All You’ve Ever Wanted to Know About Horses_. Or he at least _tries_ to seem nonchalant; his eyes are on the page, but they’re glossy, unseeing.

He looks up and quirks a brow when she opens her mouth. So, she shuts it. This is probably a waste of time. Loki isn’t the type to throw a _ball_ at someone’s head. But then he says, “I need to ask a favor,” and she resists an urge to roll her eyes.

“Did you really throw paper at my head?” she asks, motioning at her table. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s looking to occupy the vacated space; at least not yet. 

“My brother needs some help with his history project,” Loki continues as if she hasn’t spoken. He licks the tip of his finger and turns the page. He pauses, possibly _to_ actually skim a paragraph or two, or possibly for dramatic effect. (Most likely for dramatic effect; he’s always been a bit… theatrical, a bit Shakespearean, really.)

“And?” she says, glancing at the table again. No one’s tried taking her spot yet. Good.

“He wants your cousin to help him.” Loki sets the magazine on the shelf and grabs another one. She doesn’t bother trying to read the title.

“Alright?”

Loki heaves a large sigh, like _she’s_ bothering _him_. Like _she’s_ ruining _his_ time to get a bit of work done. “I’ve never made it a point to meddle in my brother’s love life,” he eventually says, “but _Jane_ was a scientist, too.”

Jen scratches her ear. This conversation is going nowhere fast. “Alright…”

“Thor doesn’t tell me much,” Loki says, setting the magazine back. He doesn’t grab another. He only leans against the shelf and folds his arms. “I didn’t even know he and Jane had broken up until I idly mentioned her absence and he literally _winced_.”

Jen tries to imagine it and can’t. Granted, she doesn’t really _know_ Thor. She’s had exactly one conversation with the guy and it was about _food_. Still, Thor is rarely seen without a smile, like he has a literal halo of sunshine. Most of the time, if he _does_ decide to tag along – and it’s not like anyone in their group exactly _dis_ courages hop-ons, despite what others may say – he spends most of his time talking to – to –

“Oh, my God.” 

 Loki actually _smirks_. It’s not exactly an odd look on him; it looks much too natural, like his resting face won’t allow for anything else. “I’m not stupid,” he says. “Thor adamantly denies it, but I _know_ when he fancies someone. It’s written all over his face.”

“Why doesn’t he just ask Bruce himself?” Jen asks. It’s not like Bruce is a scary guy. Far from it. He has an explosive temper, sure, but he usually saves it for people he’s not fond of; like his father, or uncle. Other than that, he’s a pretty easy-going guy who just wants to get through the day.

“Tongue-tied, I guess.” Loki shrugs a shoulder.

Jen barks a laugh. It’s loud in the solemn silence of the library and a few people glance over. She claps a hand over her mouth. The idea of actual _Adonis,_ Thor Odinson, being _tongue-tied_ is… cute. It _does_ explain why it seems Bruce does most of the talking, though. Truthfully, she chalked that up to Thor’s interest in food, but now that she thinks of it –

“There _is_ another reason though,” Loki says, and he’s almost frowning now. He plays with the ends of his hair; it’s slicked back into one, long ponytail, like he’s drowned it in an entire case of pomade. “And though I’ve tried to tell Thor otherwise, he _still_ seems entirely… sure of it. I’m not certain if he’s just being paranoid, or if, well. You’d know better than anyone, I suppose.”

Jen raises her eyebrows. “What is it?” It must be pretty important.

“He seems to be under the impression –” he sighs like he’s in physical distress and Jen only has to wonder for a moment before he’s digging a phone out of his back pocket. “Yes, Thor? If you must know, I’m in the library. I – yes, I am. Alright, but –” He snaps his phone shut and turns back, rolling his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go see my dear brother. He’s – well, let’s just say that he needs some help with something.”

“But what about –” Jen cuts off when it becomes apparent that Loki isn’t going to finish his thought. She sighs and glances back at her table; Peter is sitting across from her vacant seat. He waves.

Of course.

~ ~ ~

The waitress hasn’t come to check on them in awhile; she’s standing near the front, chatting with a coworker. Jen is more than alright with this, though; it gives her more time to actually _talk_ to Bruce for once.

He keeps wringing his napkin. He keeps wringing his napkin and he can’t seem to _look_ at her; his eyes keep straying elsewhere. Anywhere that Jen is _not_. Anxiety is a prevalent part of his personality, there’s no denying that, but Jen won’t ask. Bruce often worries too much for his own good; the man worries about _test scores_ , for God’s sake, even though she’s pretty sure he’s never gotten anything lower than a 99.9%.

“I tried talking to Nat today,” he says and then stops. He raises his head, wincing their eyes meet.

She frowns.

“Well, I sent her an email anyway.” Bruce shrugs, obviously trying to seem nonchalant, but he’s almost completely shredded his napkin; bits of tissue liter his end of the table. “I don’t know how often she _checks_ her email, but –”

“Bruce.”

He visibly flinches and drops what’s left of his hapless napkin.

Jen peers out the window; rain laps against the glass. “What’d you say?”

“Asked how she was doing,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair; he’s shaking. “She’s been hanging out with some new people lately, so –”

“Bruce…” Jen sighs. She stares outside for a moment longer. Dozens of people pass by, umbrellas out, not a care in the world. It’s easy to envy them, though they may have their own problems, their own day-to-day issues. Because Bruce is her cousin and she loves him, but _Jesus_.

“She seems fine, really,” he continues, still not meeting her eyes. His are turning red, and she hands him another napkin. “But uh,” he shifts in his seat, finally sitting up a bit; under the guise of the fluorescent lights, she can _really_ see the dark lines under his eyes. Her heart aches for him, it really does. “What’d you want to talk about anyway?”

Jen pauses. _Maybe_ now isn’t quite the time to bring up – well… the ‘Thor Thing’, as she’ll forever dub it. It’s hard to tell if Bruce even feels the same way, to be fair. He and Thor get along really, _really_ well, but Bruce is… Bruce. The breakup is clearly still an open wound, though it happened weeks ago. No need to rub anything on it, even if it _isn't_ salt. It wouldn't be fair to him or Thor. Or Natasha, really.

“Nothing important,” she quickly says. “Just wanted to see how you were doing, I suppose.” 

He doesn’t respond. He only flags down the waitress.

Beth is by their side in an instant, a full pot of coffee in hand; steam rises out of the spout. “No homework today?” she says with a bright smile. She doesn’t even bother pouring a cup; she just sets the entire pot in the center of the table.

Jen offers a smile of her own, though she knows it looks fake. It _feels_ fake; her lips may curve upward, but it’s an effort. “Thought I’d take a break.”

“Everyone deserves one.” Beth looks to Bruce, but he seems more inclined to stare at his hands. They’re still shaking, though he isn’t tearing anymore napkins apart. He’s just staring at his palms, eyes half-mast, like he’s grown bored of their existence. “Um, just let me know if you need anything else,” she eventually says, smile fading.

Jen nods. “We will.”

After Beth walks off, Bruce immediately grabs the coffee and begins drinking it. Straight out of the pot. No reservations. And Jen doesn’t even try and stop him, and she _should_. She _really_ should. She should reach over and snatch it back. Or at least tell him to _stop_ and not just because a couple people are giving them an odd glance or two: His front must be _scalding_ as it dribbles out the side of his mouth, pouring straight down his neatly pressed button-down. More steam rises.

She just stares in unabashed horror, heart palpitating like she’s in the middle of a marathon. The words come tumbling out without warning, “Bruce, what the _fuck_?”

He violently jumps as if only _just_ realizing what he’s actually _doing_. The pot goes flying, landing some five feet away. It shatters on impact, splattering the undrunk coffee all over the nearest patrons. And Beth.

Beth gets the worst of it. Luckily, it doesn’t reach her face; it merely splashes on her front, speckling her gold dress.

“Oh, my God!” Bruce yells. He doesn’t even give Jen time to react before he’s on his feet, jumping behind the counter to grab a handful of napkins. “I am so, so _sorry_.” He forcefully begins dabbing her dress, his already crimson face growing redder by the moment.

The music seems almost overwhelming as _everyone_ stops. All scattered conversations cease. Everyone turns to look as Bruce helplessly tries cleaning Beth’s already ruined uniform. She keeps repeating something that sounds something like, “it’s okay, it’s okay,” but the words fall on deaf ears; not even Jen hears her whispered pleas.  

“Bruce,” Jen tries. She slides down in her seat as a few eyes fall on _her_. “Bruce, just – just _stop_.”

Jen’s voice seems to snap him out of… something. He freezes, his eyes wide behind the thin frames. He, however, doesn’t even spare Jen a passing glance. He just keeps staring at Beth like he’s sorry they ever even _met_.

Beth, however, is not looking anywhere near the other patrons, or _even_ Bruce; she just stares at her shoes. Once winter white, they’re now a splattered mess, too.

“Bruce, let’s – let’s just _go_ ,” Jen says, getting to her feet. She snatches his arm, dragging him away from – _everything_.

He doesn’t protest. He just drops the napkins at Beth’s feet, muttering another apology. All eyes follow them. When they open the door. When they’re outside, dripping wet in a matter of moments.

Jen ignores them. It’s about all she _can_ do.

~ ~ ~

From: _Bruce: **We can never go back.**_

From: _Peter:_ **what?**

To: _Bruce, Peter, Tony:_ Agreed. 

From: _Peter:_ **where? why??**

To: _Bruce, Peter, Tony:_ It’s best not to talk about it.

From: _Peter:_ **where???!!!**

From: _Peter:_ **guys?? tell me where at least im confuzed**

To: _Bruce, Peter, Tony:_ That little café we visited last week.

From: _Tony:_ **What happened?**

From: _Bruce: **I’ll tell you later.**_

From: _Peter:_ **but u won’t tell ME?? the fuck guys**

To: _Bruce, Peter, Tony:_ Don’t worry about it, Peter. Just know that we’re NEVER going back.

From: _Peter: **> :( **_

~ ~ ~

“Jen, I’m really sorry.”

Jen looks up, blinking hard. It’s usually painful to drag herself away from her work because a break in concentration means a break in _everything_ ; it’s difficult to get going once everything’s broken. But in this case, she’s almost thankful for the break; the papers _hurt._ They all seem to meld together in a discombobulated mess, the words devoid of meaning.

She’s been reading the same paragraph over and over again anyway. At _least_ for the past ten minutes, if not longer.  

Bruce stares at her, head tilted. “For the other day, I mean.” He's wearing a thick sweater for once; it's cold down here with the air conditioning, sure, but it's obvious he's covering the burn marks; he must have them.

Tony stops playing with his computer long enough to say, “Yeah, I was going to ask about that. What _happened_ , exactly?” He swivels in his seat, crossing his arms. He stares them both down like he’s somehow _intimidating;_ sure, he’s a couple years older than them both, but _intimidating_? Never.

The fact that he’s the short one _definitely_ works against him.

“Just a little incident,” Bruce eventually says, absently tugging on the front of his sweater. It's a muted purple, the same color as his favorite button-down. Even in the dim light, it’s not hard to see his blush; it works its way up to his ears. “I embarrassed the hell outta Jen. And myself.”

Tony purses his lips, though doesn’t say anything more. He just spins back around and resumes typing. At least for a few seconds. Then he pauses again, and the _absence_ of typing makes Jen gaze over at him again; it’s too quiet in here most of the time anyway, except for DUM-E’s occasional hum and Tony’s occasional mutterings about bad readings and such.  

“I almost forgot to mention,” he says, scratching his head as he swivels back, “Odinson was looking for you.” And before Jen can even so much as ask ‘which one?’, Tony’s nodding at Bruce. “Thor, I mean,” he adds. “He wanted to ask you for help on something, I guess.”

Bruce digs his phone out of his pocket in an instant. He frowns at it. “Why didn’t he just text me or something? He has my number.”

Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Dunno. I didn’t ask.”

Jen tries not to smile. She covers her mouth with her hand and quickly looks back at her homework. Somehow, though, criminal justice doesn’t seem _quite_ as interesting as before.

“Guess I’ll see if he wants to meet up later,” Bruce says, _thankfully_ not noticing a thing. “I’ll be right back. Reception in here is awful.”

When Jen looks back up, Bruce is walking out, his phone at his ear; _Tony_ , on the other hand, is staring at Jen, his eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?” he asks, ceasing all pretense of _subtly._

“Noth –”

“ _Jen_.”

“It’s _nothing_ , Tony. _Really_.”

Thankfully, Bruce returns before Tony can even open his mouth again. He’s frowning at his phone. “Thor was acting a bit… off,” he says, turning it over in his hands. “I hope nothing’s _wrong._ ”

“Off how?” Tony asks, still staring at Jen. She forces herself to look away, pretending to be invested in her homework. She picks up her pencil and feigns scribbling a note on the page, though only succeeds on writing her own name.

“I dunno,” Bruce says. “He seemed kind of… nervous, I guess? All he wanted to ask was if I’d help him with his history project. I mean, I’m not really an historian, but I guess if he really needs help, I said I’d help him.”

“That was nice of you,” Jen says, trying to keep her voice level even as a laugh threatens to break the barrier of nonchalance. Her voice _is_ shaking, though Bruce doesn’t seem to notice. He seems much more invested in his phone, still gently tossing it between hands.

“I guess.”

When she looks back at Tony, he’s still staring at her, though his expression is less menacing, more… surprised. He nods at Bruce, quirking his eyebrows. On almost anyone else, she’d deem the motion unreadable, but on Tony –

She nods, finally allowing herself to grin.

His jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

Bruce finally pockets his phone, still frowning. “What?”

Tony blinks. “Uh, I just – project-related. I’m – I’m gonna type somethin’ up real quick. I’ll show you in a bit.”

Somehow, Bruce doesn’t seem convinced. Fortunately, however, he doesn’t argue. He only nods in vague understanding and turns back to the papers flooding another nearby desk. 

Jen glances at Tony again, catching his eye. He smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I am aware that Loki's last name isn't Odinson. I just made it that for simplicity sake.


	6. Steve II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for not updating for the past few weeks. I was just swamped with school and then I was out of town for about a week. So I hope that a longer chapter makes up for it? Haha. It's a little over 5,000 words! 
> 
> Much of this is a flashback that takes place a few months before the current events. It wasn't intended to be quite so long, but I was having so much fun with it that I just kept adding more and more. I basically rewrote it from scratch because the original version was so bleh. Hope you enjoy. :) 
> 
> (Also, sidenote - I saw Into the Spider-Verse the other day and holy shit, it was awesome. If you haven't seen it, go see it!)

It’s unfortunate that alternate timelines don’t exist.

Or they haven’t been _discovered_ yet anyway.

Because in another reality, in _any_ other timeline, Steve would march straight up to Tony and just _explicitly_ state that he is _not_ dating Bucky. That he doesn’t _want_ to date Bucky. That the very _idea_ of dating Bucky is off-kilter and weird. That he and Bucky are _just_ friends and that’s all they’ll _ever_ be.

And then maybe add in a quick hint that he likes _Tony_. Maybe? (Probably not.)

In _this_ reality, however – because unfortunately, Steve _is_ stuck here… that’s – that’s just not going to happen. Never. The chances of him even _talking_ to Tony anytime soon is… low. Just very, very _low_. For now, he’ll just resign himself to his silent pining. He’s good at pining. He’s _really_ good at it.

He’s so good at it, in fact, that he literally walked straight into a door _because_ of it. Pathetic.

“Rogers, I swear to God –”

Sam _definitely_ isn’t helping. Somehow, someway, he finds the whole thing just _hilarious_. Like Steve’s love-life is a sitcom. If only things _could_ be wrapped up in a neat, little bow in twenty-two minutes. If _only_.

“Steve. Come _on_.”

When Steve finally lifts his gaze, he finds Sam staring at him, eyebrows quirked. “I’m glad you find my love-life so amusing,” he says, swirling his straw in his soda; the ice cubes clang against the glass. He rests his chin in his free hand.

Sam glances back at the waitress. Beth is taking someone else’s order down the line; she doesn’t pay mind. “Okay, but to be _fair_ ,” he says, drawing his eyes back to meet Steve’s; he’s smirking again which is as far from _good_ as things can possibly _get_ , “it’s _funny_. And it’s _only_ funny because I _know_ you used to be in love with Bucky.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s never going to _literally_ be on fire; not unless he’s caught up in a serious case of ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ The literal feeling must be so worse than anything he can ever _imagine_. But Jesus Christ, his face heats up so fast he’s surprised the sprinklers don’t go off.

On cue, Sam bursts out laughing. He slaps the table as his cheeks flush. “Oh, my _God_ ,” he chokes, “I was totally kiddin’, but you _were_ – weren’t you?”

“I mean, I – that was – I wouldn’t call it _love_ , exactly, but –” Steve looks around. Predictably, they’re being stared at. They’re being outright _gawked_ at by almost everyone in the building _including_ Beth. She doesn’t even seem surprised, honestly, just mildly annoyed as she continues writing the drink orders. Like she deals with this sort of thing far too often. “ _Please_ stop laughing.”

His words luckily _don’t_ fall on deaf ears. Sam’s laughter subsides, but his grin does not. “Look, man, I _knew_ you had a _crush_ on the dude at one point,” he says, trying in vain to flag Beth down; she completely ignores him, her eyes glossy as she walks past, “how the hell _James_ never found out –”

“And won’t _ever_ find out,” Steve mutters, shielding his face. People keep staring, their eyes watching his every move. Do they have nothing _better_ to do? “I agreed to have lunch with you to see if maybe you’d have an actual _plan_. Nat thinks we should go ahead and pretend to date to make Tony _jealous_ or something, but I –”

“I think she has the right idea,” Sam says with a shrug. “The fact that the dude even brought you up to begin with – that’s progress.” He takes a long drink out of his own soda, his eyes back on Beth; she nods to them. “Why _not_ try and make him jealous?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You’re serious.”

Sam doesn’t say a word. He only drains the rest of his glass, grinning into it.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to realize that I’m _right_.”

Steve rolls his eyes, slaps a couple bucks on the table, and gets to his feet. Suddenly sandwiches don’t seem very appealing; he hasn’t even finished his soda, but the fact that half the café is still _staring_ seriously makes him not give two shits. “Alright, I’m gonna head back. Let me know when you’ve got an _actual_ idea.”

Sam shakes his head, though doesn’t stop grinning. He _never_ stops grinning. It’s an epidemic, Steve _swears_. “Alright, man, but I’m tellin’ ya. It _will_ work,” he says, swirling his straw again; his soda’s completely gone, leaving nothing more than a layer of half-melted ice cubes.

“Whatever, Sam. Talk later.”

Sam half-heartedly waves him off, still chuckling to himself.

~ ~ ~

Looks can be deceiving.

Steve knows this. Steve knows this _far_ too well. People’ll take a gander at him and automatically assume that he’s _brave_. That just because he’s tall and well-built – the gym _has_ paid off, thankfully – that he can take on anything.

And yes, he _is_ brave; he’s brave when it comes to standing up for the little guy (and not _just_ because he used to _be_ the little guy); he’s even brave when it comes to public speaking (which _is_ an admirable trait, despite what Bucky and Sam may say).

But he’s not brave enough to try and approach Tony again. The last time was a fluke, a stupid fluke perpetuated by a _stupid_ mistake all because Steve had the _audacity_ to look _mad_ when messaging his closest friends. Maybe Tony felt a pang of sympathy, but that doesn’t mean much; until last week, he didn’t even remember Steve’s _name_.

So, Steve isn’t stupid enough to believe that it will happen again. Especially not after the _recent_ development. The fact that Sam and Nat think he should try and make the guy _jealous_ is – is – it’s just stupid. That’s what it is.

Hell, even the first time he and Tony met was a technical fluke. It was spurred by a coincidental ‘right place, right time,’ though almost _everyone_ was at that party. And almost everyone was drunk. Steve was barely even buzzed, though not for lack of _trying_.

“C’mon, punk,” Bucky said, handing him another cup. “Cheer up. The world hasn’t ended.”

Beer didn’t really suit Steve’s taste – he was more of a rum guy – but alcohol was alcohol. He took the cup gratefully, draining most of it in a large gulp. It didn’t quite satisfy without the burn of other, stronger drinks. “That’s easy for _you_ to say,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “ _You_ didn’t just lose the only girl you’ve ever loved.”

Bucky frowned as he took swig out of his own cup. “I know, Stevie. I know.”

Not that Steve could be _angry_ with Peggy. He wasn’t. Her reasoning was perfectly rational. She couldn’t stay in the states for long and they both knew it; her family needed her. Long-distance was hard to maintain, would _always_ be hard to maintain, so it was best to just end it.

No matter how much it sucked.

“Do you want anythin’ else?” Bucky asked, motioning toward the bar. It wasn’t much more than a countertop lined with dozens of colorful bottles. So much alcohol, so little time.

Wanda Maximoff stood before it, nursing a glass of red wine. She toddled on her feet, though smiled and waved when she caught Steve’s eye.

He waved back, hardly able to conjure a smile. She was cute, no doubt, but he just didn’t care. “Nah, I’m good. I think _she’s_ waitin’ for you,” he said.

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Wanda? I hardly know her. Besides, even if she _were_ , I ain’t here to get laid.”

Somewhere in the midst of drunk college students, Sam’s booming laughter rang out. Steve looked to find Sam standing in a half-circle with a few others; Sam’s arm was draped around a short, dark-haired girl’s shoulder.  

“At least _someone’s_ havin’ fun,” Steve said with a forced laugh. The entire room smelt like cheap beer and cigarettes, though no one was smoking. This didn’t do much for his already churning stomach.

“And you would be too if you stopped mopin’.” Bucky frowned into his drink. “I’m sorry ‘bout Pegs, I really am, but there’ll be others. And it’s not like she hates you or anythin’.”

“I know.” Steve finished his beer in one last swig. “Look, I think I’m gonna head out. I just kinda wanna be alone.”

“You want a ride?” Bucky took his car key out, jingling it in Steve’s face. “This is only my second one. I don’t feel anythin’.”

Steve quickly shook his head. “Stay here, have some fun. It’s not too far a walk. Think I gotta clear my head.” He glanced at the window. Snowflakes fell from the sky, splattering the glass; he’d never been really keen on the winter months, but it wasn’t _too_ far. “Should’ve brought my hat, I guess.”

Bucky handed him the keys anyway. “Take the car at least. I’ll be here for a bit.”

“Alright.” Steve pocketed the keys. “Pick you up later?”

“You might not have to, but I’ll let you know,” Bucky said with a wink. “ _If_ you get my drift.” And he walked off, mostly-full cup still in hand.

Steve shook his head, chuckling to himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around at all the party-goers.

Everyone seemed paired off, his own friends included: Bucky was already latched onto Pietro Maximoff, his arm wrapped around Pietro’s shoulder, while Wanda animatedly chatted with the pair. Sam was still standing in the semi-circle, laughing away with new friends as the dark-haired girl nuzzled his neck. It didn’t distract him in the least.

Steve let out a long sigh, his mood already slipping. He wasn’t exactly _envious_ of his friends or anything; no one here really caught his eye anyway, but the break-up was still fresh. It was difficult _not_ to long for something new or even just something familiar. He’d avoided Peggy’s last call, sending it straight to voicemail. She hadn’t tried since, and he couldn’t even blame her.

The Maximoff’s basement was dimly lit with only a ten-foot tree and a few lazily strung branches of light lining the walls, so Steve wasn’t even surprised when someone bumped into him. Or rather _stumbled_ into him. He turned to find Tony Stark staring up at him through glassy, unfocused eyes.

 “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Steve forced a grin. He’d seen Tony Stark around campus numerous times, though they’d never spoken. The guy was always surrounded by an array of other students, most notably his roommate, Bruce Banner. He had a reputation for being a bit of an ass.

Steve didn’t really pay mind to rumors though, so he mostly just ignored the guy’s existence. He _also_ didn’t really care to stop and chat right now, partly because Tony was _clearly_ gone; he was in a state of intoxication Steve could only _hope_ to one-day reach, one he’d seen far too often with Bucky and Sam.

Tony teetered on his heels, ghosting a hand over Steve’s arm in case something went wrong. Steve wouldn’t have minded catching him, though only due to his stupid moral compass; it wouldn’t feel right to just outright let the man harm himself even though he hardly knew the guy.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, glancing around the room for Bruce. His search inevitably came up empty because of course it did. So much for heading home.  

Tony nodded. He was still conscious enough to answer questions, good. “I was – I was act’ly lookin’ for my car keys.” His words were slurred, hardly comprehensible. “I jus’ wanna go home an’ I can’ seem ta – seem ta find ‘em.”

Steve chose not to mention the set of keys Tony was _clearly_ holding; a large carabiner was looped around his finger. “I don’t think you should be driving,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m heading out myself, so do you want a ride?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tony said, waving a hand like he was batting at a pesky fly only he could see.

Steve sighed. “C’mon, just lemme drive you home.”

“You don’ _know_ me,” Tony argued, trying – and completely failing – to seem even half-heartedly annoyed. “For all _you_ know, I – I could be a scam artist, tryin’ ta steal yer car.”

Ignoring the fact that none of that even made a lick of sense, Steve managed a small smile. It felt nice to smile. “I sincerely doubt it. Now come on.”

Tony lolled his head back. “Alright, whatevs.”

A couple minutes later, the pair were back in Bucky’s car. Tony immediately rested his cheek against the window, eyes squeezed shut. “Thanks, I guess.” He held out a hand; Steve ignored it. “Tony.”

“I know,” Steve said as he started the car. The engine sputtered a bit, but started fairly easily, despite the cold. “I’d be hard-pressed not to find someone who doesn’t know who you are.”

Tony turned his head, lazily peeking at him with one eye. “I dunno _your_ name though.” He sounded exhausted, like the short walk outside had drained him of his life-force. His face was still flushed pink, though it was hard to tell if it was because of the alcohol or the chilled air.

“Name’s Steve.”

“Nice – nice to meet you, Steve.” Tony went back to resting his cheek against the window, letting out a long yawn. “Sp’ose you know where I live, too?”

“Vaguely,” Steve said. He handed Tony his phone. “But do me a favor and type your address into Google maps.”

Tony waved him off, hugging his side. “I’ll give directions.”

Steve sighed. Jesus Christ, he was never getting home. “Alright, just don’t fall asleep. I’d like to get back before my next birthday.”

“I won‘t.”

~ ~ ~

He did.

Tony was out like a light within a few, short minutes. He still hugged his side as if the cool air outside was seeping through the cracks, though his fingers loosened; the carabiner was already on the floor.

Steve groaned. Great, just _great_. “I just wanted to go _home_ ,” he muttered, taking a sharp turn; this did nothing except make Tony’s head lightly bump against the glass. He stayed stubbornly asleep.

Luckily, Steve _somewhat_ knew where Tony lived. Literally everyone had _some_ idea. Tony Stark announced his address every single time someone pissed him off – much to the disdain of his roommate; the school _had_ to ban him from posting on the front page of the website _eventually_.

So, he pulled to the front of a house he thought resembled the one he had seen so many times on the school website. The entire front was adorned with multi-colored Christmas lights, which seemed a bit out-of-character; Tony Stark hardly seemed the decorating type, but then again, Steve really didn’t _know_ the guy.

 _This_ got Tony’s attention for whatever reason. He awoke with a start, eyes widening when they met Steve’s. “What’s – where – we –”

“This is your place, right?”

“Think so.” Tony squinted at the lights. “I don’t remember livin’ in Whoville, but then again, Jen’s always tellin’ us to be more festive. She might’ve done some redecorating.”

Steve held back another groan. He was never getting home. Never. “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath. He flexed his fingers over the steering wheel. “Do you need –”

Tony opened the door without another word and fell out. Straight on his face.

Sighing, Steve got out of the car and walked to the other side. He helped Tony to his feet, nodding toward the entrance. “Just so we’re clear, this _is_ your place, right?”

Thankfully, Tony nodded. He seemed strangely unaware of the dirt and blood on his cheek, though did absently wipe it with the back of his hand. His other hand tightly held Steve’s arm as he leaned against him. “I know my own house, Steven.”

It wasn’t even worth arguing, so Steve stayed silent as they walked to the entrance. Tony’s nails somehow buried their way through Steve’s sweater and straight into his arm. The guy seriously needed a pair of clippers.

“You have your house key, right?”

Tony side-eyed him. “ _Duh._ I’m drunk, not stupid.”

Steve resisted an urge to roll his eyes again. It _seriously_ wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it. Soon he’d be back in the dorm, free to sketch to his heart’s desire. His sketchpad was a saving grace, after all. “Alright, alright. Calm down,” he said. “I was _just_ making sure. I’m – what?”

“Uh…” Tony slowly lowered himself to sit on the step. He fumbled through his pockets, half-lidded eyes widening.

“You don’t have your house key,” Steve deadpanned, rolling his head back; the night sky was a pretty sight, but he wanted to see the _in_ side of his _dorm_. His nice, warm dorm. Where it wasn’t cold and wet. “You have your _car_ key, but no _house_ key.”

“Maybe Bruce is home,” Tony muttered to himself, still digging through every possible pocket. His leather jacket, however, only had two pockets from what Steve could _tell_ , and Tony had already flipped those inside out. He stood and rapped on the front door.

The lights were off, and the curtains drawn, so Steve didn’t expect much. And to no one’s surprise, there was no answer.

Of course.

“Try calling him,” Steve said, glancing back at the car. It was still running since he _thought_ this would be a _quick_ drop-off. He folded his arms as he watched Tony’s face go from relieved to ‘oh shit’ in a millisecond. “You don’t have your phone either, do you?”

“I do, it’s just… dead.”

Steve dropped his face in his hands. “You’re serious. Well, do you know his number? You can use _my_ phone.”

“I don’t have it memorized and even if I did, I don’t think I’d remember the damn thing right now.”

Steve stared. This was so far off of how his night _should_ have gone. He may have been a Brooklyn guy, born and raised, but that didn’t mean he _enjoyed_ the cold. Being used to the harsh winters didn’t mean he had to _like_ them.

“You don’t need to wait with me or anything.” Tony hugged his sides; his jacket wasn’t exactly winter material. “Bruce is prob’bly out with Jen. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“I’m not just gonna leave you here.” Steve looked upward. Snow was beginning to fall heavily from the night sky, the flakes hitting his nose. “C’mon, let’s at least wait in the car.” He motioned toward the vehicle.

“You sure?” Tony raised his eyebrows, still hugging himself. “I know you wanted to head home.”

Steve shrugged. “I got time. I just gotta pick my friend up later.”

Tony only nodded.

~ ~ ~

“You look exhausted.”

Steve didn’t bother moving his head; it had found its niche, resting comfortably against the headrest. He did, however, glance over, partially peeking at Tony through lidded eyes. They did feel heavy, his mind hazy; it would be so easy to just drift off…  

Tony was already staring at him, though his eyes were unfocused. “We should prob’bly try to keep one another awake ‘til Bruce gets back. It prob’bly already looks weird for two full-grown men to be sittin’ outside a house like this.”

“Fair point,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes. “Any ideas?”

“We could swap stories?”

“What kind of stories?”

Tony paused for a moment, stroking his chin. He had the makings of a goatee, though it looked almost half-assed, like he’d gotten drunk one morning and made an equally half-assed attempt to shave. He very well _might_ have. “I mean, I _could_ delve into this hypothesis Bruce and I have been _trying_ to test as of late, but my brain’s telling me to shut the fuck up about anything vaguely scientific because if I try to think of anything too complicated, I’ll wind up with a goddamn migraine.”

He did seem less out of it than before, speaking more slowly and deliberately. His words didn’t slur together quite as much.

Steve chuckled. “Don’t do that then. I don’t need you puking in Bucky’s car; he’d murder me.”

Tony laughed. It was a weak, but it was there. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll just bitch about my lackluster life then, if that’s okay? If I had my phone, I’d be callin’ a friend of mine, time differences be damned. Though he lives in Cali, so it’s still pretty early there anyway, so –”

“What exactly do you consider lackluster?” Steve asked, sitting up. He really was going to doze off if he didn’t do something. “Your life seems just fine and dandy to me.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Tony rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Being me isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He glanced over, chuckling to himself again; it came off as a bit sardonic and self-deprecating.

Steve didn’t press further. He only frowned.

“But then again, I think I’m still a bit drunk. Not that that’s anything new.”

~ ~ ~

“Why’d you drive me back?”

Steve kept his eyes shut as he shrugged a shoulder. “You were drunk –”

“Still am. I think?”

“And I didn’t want you to wind up hurting yourself, _or_ someone else.”

“Well… thanks, I think. I prob’bly would’ve wound up walkin’ back though. I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“It’s a long walk.”

“I think a nice, long walk through the snow would’ve done me some good. Would’ve cleared my head anyway.”

“You have terrible coordination. You probably would’ve fallen on your face half-way and napped ‘til spring.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “I’m not _that_ drunk, Steve.”

“Sure, Tony. Sure.”

~ ~ ~

“Hey, let’s play a game.”

Steve groaned, lolling his head to the side. He opened his eyes to find Tony staring thoughtfully at the car ceiling, like it held all the mysteries of the universe.

“What kind of game?” he asked, unable to hold back a laugh.

Tony tapped his chin. He clearly hadn’t thought that far ahead. “You ever play I-Spy?”

Steve snorted and unfolded his arms. Sitting here was dull anyway, so he’d bite. “When I was ten, sure.”

A strangely contemplative look spread along Tony’s face; like he’d forgotten what he was saying in the middle of his sentence. Still, he persisted, “I spy… um… something that begins with the letter H.”

“Is it a house?” Steve deadpanned. He was unable to stop himself from laughing again when Tony turned to him, mouth ajar. “Just a wild guess.”

“Okay, Mr. Mind Reader.” Tony stuck his tongue out. It was kind of cute, honestly, even coming from a twenty-something grown-man. “Your turn.”

It wasn’t even worth arguing. There _were_ only so few objects in the area. So, Steve went for something a _bit_ less obvious. “I spy with my little eyes, something that begins with the letter S.”

“Uh, shrub?”

Steve shook his head.

“Street?”

“Nope.”

“Um…” Tony turned every which way, even checking the back seat for clues. “It’s not _seat,_ is it? ‘Cause I’m obviously not gonna think about the thing my _ass_ is currently on. I’m not really _looking_ at it.”

“Nope.” Steve grinned. “I _ass_ ure you that it’s not.”

Tony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Are you a dad? Because that was a dad joke if I’ve ever heard one –”

“Just keep guessin’,” Steve said, waving a hand through the open air. He’d long since turned off the ignition; condensation had overtaken the windows and windshield. It was chilly, but still better than standing outside. “And before you ask, no, it’s not _Steve_ either.”

Tony paused for a moment, tilting his head. “Y’know, I hadn’t even considered that one.” He ran a hand through his hair, further mussing up the already messy front. He was a brunette, much like Peggy, and Steve had to admit that he was a good-looking guy, there was no denying _that_ , but that – that wasn’t important. “But uh… sky?”

Steve grinned again, wiping the windshield with his sleeve. He nodded toward the sky. “Close.”

Tony blinked. “Airplane doesn’t begin with an S.”

“Just _think_ about it, Tony.”

It took a good few seconds, but slowly a dawning realization seemed to occur.

“Stars?” Tony said softly, turning back. A wide grin spread along his face and for a moment, Steve marveled at the way the lights colored his skin green, red and gold. He had a very nice smile.

Steve’s stomach fluttered.

Shit. No, no, _no_.

“Yep,” he said, quickly turning away.

“Okay, my turn.”

~ ~ ~

“Were you _really_ on your way out?”

Steve wordlessly nodded, trying to seem nonchalant. He kept absently tapping his fingers on his leg, his whole body jittery with nerves. His stomach hadn’t stopped fluttering and that – that was definitely a problem. He was seriously content with never speaking again if it meant the fluttering would stop.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Bucky telling him to stop being so ridiculous. As if simple words could take the feeling away. Loneliness was obviously taking a toll on his mind because he hardly even _knew_ Tony. He didn’t – he _couldn’t_ –

Tony frowned. It was a small and subtle, but it was definitely there. “I sorta regret going myself, and not just ‘cause of the impending hangover.”

“You don’t seem much like, I dunno,” Steve shrugged, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too bad. Even if it were, he supposed he could blame it on the cold. “A small-scale kinda guy? Too cool for college parties.”

“Well, in my defense, the Maximoffs throw some pretty wicked shindigs.” Tony flashed a grin. It seemed genuine, reaching the corners of his dark eyes.

The fluttering increased; there was no mistaking it. _Shit_. “Any particular reason you went?” he said quickly, hoping the late-night darkness would cover his flushed face. Thankfully Tony didn’t seem to notice. “I was dragged.”

“No real reason. Just wanted to, I guess.” Tony chuckled, shaking his head. His smile was _definitely_ genuine and that _really_ didn’t help the butterflies. Maybe Steve _was_ more buzzed than he thought which was bad. Driving while buzzed was bad. Bad, bad, bad. “But I can’t say I’m surprised you were dragged against your will. You don’t seem like much of a party animal yourself, though for all I know, you could be _full_ of surprises.”

“Can’t say I am.” Steve rubbed the nape of his neck. Was Tony _flirting_ with him? Was he flirting with _Tony_? He’d been a bit down lately, but holy hell, he needed to slow his role. Plus, Bucky would _never_ let him live it down.

The last thing he needed was Bucky giving him shit for flirting with _Tony Stark_.

Jesus Christ.

“Well, I appreciate you waiting with me,” Tony continued, thankfully oblivious to… everything, “I know you wanted to get home, so thanks for not making me freeze.” He smiled serenely, staring straight ahead. The windshield fogged up again, so he wasn’t staring at much; but he seemed pleased, regardless.

Steve’s mouth went dry. Fuck. “Uh, no problem.”  

~ ~ ~

“How long we been sittin’ here?”

Steve took out his phone and glanced at the screen. “A little over an hour, I’d say.”

Tony paused for a moment, eyes drawn to the house. “You know what just occurred to me?” He turned back to Steve, smiling almost sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I hope you see the humor in this as I have, but –”

“This isn’t your house.” Steve breathlessly laughed. “Is it?”

He wasn’t mad. He really, really wasn’t. The last hour had honestly been the most fun he’d had in a long, long time. The fact that his stomach hadn’t let go of that stupid fluttery feeling was probably a problem, but loneliness did wonders. He was probably just missing Peggy. She and Tony _were_ both brunettes with dark eyes, after all.

So, he’d be back to normal soon.

… hopefully.  

“Luckily I’m right up the street.” Tony wiped the windshield with his sleeve. “This is the Parkers’ place. They’re _really_ into the holiday season.” He opened the door, wincing when a gust of cold air breezed by, though smiled again when he looked back at Steve. “I’m alright to walk the rest of the way. Sorry for makin’ us wait for nothin’. I mean, I doubt I’ll remember most of this in the mornin’, but still.”

“Hey, for what it’s worth, I didn’t mind.” Steve shrugged a shoulder, still grinning. He hoped his voice didn’t give anything away. “Better than that stupid party.” He was pretty sure his face was still really red, but Tony didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t make mention of it.

Tony merely chuckled. “Agreed.” He offered a brief wave and left, walking along the path with a small skip in his step.

Steve let out a long, hard breath, resting his face in his hands. The butterflies multiplied, ten-fold. Shit, shit, _shit_.

Not again.

~ ~ ~

The library is _far_ from a sanctuary, but it _is_ a good place to hide. Not that Steve’s been _avoiding_ Bucky or anything; he’s just… busy. Just very, very busy. With classes and all that. So, he doesn’t exactly expect his best friend to track him down.

“Look, I know the whole dating this is awkward,” Bucky says, sitting across the way. He folds his hands on the table, either ignoring the way Steve nearly leaps out of his skin or otherwise just not noticing it. “But I think we should just go for it.”

Steve blinks. Once upon a time, this would’ve been a dream come true, but now –

“I’m serious, Steve,” Bucky barrels straight on through, tucking some hair behind his ear. He averts his eyes as he speaks, his cheeks flushed. It’s more funny than cute, though Steve would be hard-pressed to not find it strangely endearing. “I told you that I’d help you, and as much as I hate to admit it because it’s _stupidly_ immature, I think Natasha’s right. We should try the jealousy angle.”

“Okay…” Steve mutters. “Any reason _why_ you’ve suddenly –”

“I know you’ll never admit it, but you’ve been avoiding me.” Bucky shakes his head. “I’d rather just dive-in head-first because I _know_ you feel…” He fumbles with his hands for a moment, his eyes drawn to an area some five inches to Steve’s left. “Awkward, I guess, given, y’know…”

Steve’s heart skips a stupidly panicked beat. The last thing he needs is for Bucky to find out –

“I mean, people seem to always assume that we’re dating anyway.” Bucky rolls his eyes, grinning a bit. “I don’t think we’ve ever given off that vibe, but whatever.”

Oh, okay. Good. Steve’s body relaxes. Everything is good. He forces a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “People just see what they wanna see, I suppose,” he says.

“Anyway, my point is,” Bucky waves a hand, his grin growing more pronounced, “I think Nat’s right. Jealousy is a good way to get Stark to notice you. A bit juvenile, sure, but I dunno – it might be fun.”

“I could prob’bly just go _talk_ to him,” Steve mutters.

Bucky’s face twists into a smirk. It’s a familiar expression; far _too_ familiar. One that reminds Steve just how well Bucky _knows_ him. “Alright, punk. Whatever you say.”

Steve sighs. His friends are so unforgiving. “You’ve been talking to Sam, haven’t you?” This conversation already feels too familiar.

“Steve, you literally walked into a door because the guy said _hi_ to you.” Bucky tilts his head downward and raises his eyebrows. “You expect me to believe that you can ask him out? Please.”  

 Steve scratches the back of his head. He’s pretty sure his face is still flushed at _least_ up to his ears; and it’s not like he can exactly _hide_ it under the library’s bright, fluorescent lights. Because Bucky _is_ right.

“Okay,” he says, letting out a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”


End file.
